


Here There Be Dragons

by FrostysaurusRekt



Series: That You Can Dream [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst- just a lil, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons!Hanzo, Fluff, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Smut, Talon!McCree, mild body horror, not-brainwashed-Talon!McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 123,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7774837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostysaurusRekt/pseuds/FrostysaurusRekt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lounges in his chair, legs splayed almost obscenely. “Y’know, my ma used to read me stories at night. ‘Bout great adventurers led astray by a villain. ‘Don’t stray off the edge, here there be dragons.’ I reckon that’s usually where the best treasures were found.”</p><p>A roll of eyes and a scoff are his prize for his little ramble. “Don’t be ridiculous.”</p><p>-<br/>Talon!McCree and Dragons!Hanzo AU<br/><b>McCree is not brainwashed</b><br/>Tags and rating will be updated as the story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dopplegänger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to preface this fic with the fact that McCree willingly joined Talon. It will be revealed how that happened later on, but I just wanted to assure folks that he **has not been brainwashed** as I know that can squick people out.

“Look, all I’m sayin’ is that I find it real funny that I get saddled with the babysittin’ job while you two get to run off and go sightseein’. Again.” As he speaks, McCree does a little hop and wiggle that he’ll deny to his grave until he plants his ass firmly on the crate of… missiles? He glances down, leaning over to see the whole label. Yeah, missiles.

Reaper lets out a sigh just as Widowmaker turns on her heel, the muzzle of her rifle pressing against his chest and sliding up until she’s forcing his chin up. “It is not sightseeing, it is a mission.” Her voice is cool and calculated, he is nothing but another target if Talon declares it so. “You are reckless and obvious; we are the better suited agents.”

He huffs like a petulant child and gestures to Reaper. “He ain’t even a real agent, just some hired gun. What’s a guy gotta do to get some respect around here?”

“Grow up, ingrate. See how far that gets you.” Reaper rumbles, beginning to rifle through a munitions cache. Widowmaker turns her attention from him and back to the task at hand, ever the ready soldier.

Jesse leans back, tilting his hat down and watching the pair from underneath its brim. Reaper pulls some explosive charges from the cache, along with a detonator, and places them carefully inside a small bag. Standard issue, black, no logos, sturdy but disposable with no way of tracing it back to them- to Talon.

“Y’all gonna bring me back a souvenir instead of leaving it back at the museum this time?” He knows he’s provoking the bear, face split from ear to ear with a shit eating grin that will one day get a bullet put through his skull.

Reaper hefts the bag up onto his shoulder, head tilting and Jesse can just imagine the scowl lingering beneath the mask. “I’ll bring you back some heads to hunt.”

Names, he means. Names of old Overwatch agents; and from the recent activity reported, current agents as well.

There’s a churn in Jesse’s gut. He knew these people once upon a time, fought alongside some of them in the worst of situations. He pushes the feeling down, smothers it beneath the excitement of getting to hunt again soon, buries it with the fondness he once felt for the agents of Overwatch.

“Throw in a keychain with my name on it and I’ll keep outta your hair for at least a week.”

The mercenary does the equivalent of an eye roll, his shoulders moving with the motion as he brushes past McCree. Widowmaker follows closely behind him, flicking her hair so that the end of it whips Jesse’s nose- a deadly aim with everything, not just a gun.

Rude motherfuckers.

He sits there a moment, assuring that they’re truly gone before he hops off the crate of missiles and saunters over to the cache Reaper had been digging in. Pulling out a digital tablet, he accounts for everything on the manifest besides the taken explosives and detonator, nothing else amiss.

Jesse bites at the inside of his cheek, eyebrows furrowing together as he double checks. All clear. There is no secondary detonator mysteriously missing that Overwatch will use to disrupt the initial detonator- the job over in France still tastes sour in his mouth.

With a heavy sigh, he makes his way out of the ammunitions bay and toward the elevator that will take him up to the top. Their base is hidden in plain sight, a meager twenty floor tower that has its middle being ‘renovated’. Renovations that will never be complete, but that change occasionally; just enough to keep the public from getting worried about the building that will never be finished.

McCree pulls out a cigar, lighting it just as another agent approaches the elevator as well. He flicks his lighter shut and gives them a once over- standard uniform and mask, a nobody. Simple gun fodder when the missions get rough, or when Jesse needs cover in an open space.

“Smoking is prohibited, sir.” Their voice is even, giving away nothing. Reconditioned.

He smiles something awful around the butt of his cigar, taking a long draw before leaning over and blowing the smoke into their face. It does nothing, the vents on the mask prevent the grunt from inhaling his smoke, but the message is clear. He doesn’t give a shit.

The agent doesn’t comment, but there’s something about the set of their shoulders that lets McCree know they aren’t pleased by the imitation of a dragon.

The elevator dings, doors sliding open and they both step inside.

He waits a tick, eyes never leaving the other agent as he presses the button for the top floor, and just as the doors begin to close, he roughly shoves the agent out. Delight runs through Jesse at the indignant squawk of the agent, giving the poor sap a hat tip and a wink as they turn just in time to see the doors close. Teach that little shit to give him lip.

Jesse closes his eyes, puffing on his cigar and leaning his head back against the wall of the elevator. How in the sam hell is he gonna explain this to the boss?

There was a bleed of information somewhere in Talon, payload and base coordinates getting leaked to Overwatch at an exponential rate. The amount of intel getting to Overwatch was concerning enough that McCree had been given the explicit mission of finding the mole- they were dead certain the leak was from within.

He was sure that Reaper was the leak, the mercenary offering his services to the highest bidder. Little was known about the masked man other than his efficiency and his frightening finesse with his shotguns. It wasn’t that far of a leap to assume that someone had paid above Talon for his services, using his already established reputation with the organization to get someone on the inside.

But perhaps, and this was more worrisome, Widowmaker’s reconditioning was weakening. The cache was all accounted for, but she didn’t touch it and Jesse had heard her sharp whispers under her breath lately. A wistful sigh and a murmured name of a long dead man.

The thought makes him bite his cheek more, worrying the flesh. He doesn’t want it to be her. He doesn’t want her to go through _more,_ deep down he finds it unfair that he is allowed to keep himself while every bit of her is stripped away.

His train of thought halts before it can get too far, too deep and drag up other things he has long since buried, pushed away by the echoing ding of the elevator. It’s not his stop, but rather the floor the foolish agent had wanted. Jesse grins wickedly at the eyes that peer into the elevator, daring them to join him on his ride to the top. When no one steps forward, he tips his hat and laughs good and deep as the doors close; they fear him.

The rest of the ride up is spent by smoothing out his clothes, adjusting the heavy black serape so that the boss can see both his hands, and closing the clasp to keep Warbringer in its holster. Boss never does like it when he knows McCree can draw his weapon fast without any warning. It’s a power thing, Jesse figures, and he’s not about to test its limits and risk getting himself killed or reconditioned.

The doors open once more and the guards move to grab him before they see that it’s him.

Jesse drops a glance to their outstretched hands which instantly retract as if his gaze were burning them, shoots one a finger gun and moseys his way inside. They don’t know how far up in the pecking order he is, but they remember how the last guard who tried to grab at him wound up with his hands broken. That particular guard wasn’t with them any longer.

“Howdy, Boss.” He croons around his cigar as he pushes open the double doors with flourish.

A man is seated behind a large desk, screens flashing with information at a mile a minute. He looks up, relaxed and then frowning when Jesse kicks the doors shut with sharpened spurs. “It better be good, McCree.”

The cowboy grins easy, plopping down in one of the plush chairs. “Well, it ain’t bad news.”

“Be quick, you’ve got a captive to escort, do you not?” The sly eyebrow raised sows a cold seed of unease in Jesse’s belly, enough that he second guesses throwing his feet up on the desk as he usually would. The boss’ patience is running thin today.

“Yeah, about that,” McCree reaches up and scratches at the back of his neck. “I’m still not clear on why I gotta be the one to do the transport. Ain’t we got grunts for that?” His silent words do not escape the boss: ‘ _Ain’t I higher rankin’ than a merc and a brainwashed sniper?’_

Boss rubs his temples with a sigh. “Because anyone of higher rank than you is busy. Our new guest is a high risk-high priority, higher than your snooping which I assume…” He trails off, an expectant tone in his voice.

He lets out a puff of smoke, rolling the cigar over his lip. “It ain’t the merc. I’ll need a bit more time to check out-”

“The matter is put on hold until you return. I expect you will be back before your next target returns to be investigated.”

“Boss, I-”

A loud thunk on the desk interrupts him. A knife firmly stuck into the wood. “McCree.” Boss looks at his screens again, flicking a sharp look up at Jesse for only a second. A glancing blow. A warning. “Out of my sight.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

-

The drive clears his mind, the hum of his motorcycle underneath him a steady noise that drowns out the swirling possibilities of who the rat is. Jesse really, really doesn’t want it to be Widowmaker. He wants it to be some grunt who’s upset at the pecking order and has enough brains left to frame someone above them.

He remembers, with a sickening twist in his chest, Amélie smiling and greeting everyone with a gentle wave, Gérard’s arm around her waist. Such a sweet thing.

McCree quickly pushes the memory away, right there next to late night movies turning into popcorn strewn about, fired as ammunition in a war between rom coms and thrillers. He smothers it with the same dirt that covers sunsets on the alps with a cheeky brit and a snappy cyborg.

He buries all of those memories and those feelings he can never have back in the deep hole where a bright red swath of cloth hugs Peacekeeper close.

Jesse bites the inside of his cheek, raw and smarting at the amount of times he’s done so today, and revs the engine. He picks up speed, the ground consumed beneath him in a blur, and lets the rest melt away. There is nothing but him and this job, his means of survival in a world that would have him dead for a large sum of cash.

Concrete roadways give way to dirt trails, and soon McCree is pulling up to a cabin just off the beaten path. It’s nestled in a small woodland area, no neighbors for miles and not so large as to invite company. One of the oldest Talon transport stops, undiscovered- and it will remain that way.

The agents guarding the outside salute him, as per regulations. They have their gas masks slung at their hips, automatic rifles ready in their arms.

He dismounts his bike and leans against it, pulling out a fresh cigar and lighting it. He motions the grunts over, offers the both of them his cheaper cigars, lights them in courtesy. Silently, they all smoke together, and while the two grunts are enjoying the heady smell of their cigars, Jesse is watching them like a hawk.

He doesn’t know them. Talon forbids or extinguishes outside relationships so there are no spouses or kids to worry about. Clean cuts.

Quick as a whip, he pulls Warbringer out of its holster and puts a bullet in each of their skulls.

This transport stop is undiscovered; he’s to make sure it remains that way.

The gunslinger frowns at the bodies in the grass, the nasty wounds in their heads. He’s never understood why, despite being a similar model, Warbringer is far more destructive than Peacekeeper ever was.

The old revolver was precise, quick and clean damage, even when doing something as dirty as shooting a man right in the middle of a cigar smoke. Peacekeeper was almost a gentle weapon, bodies dropped by it could have open casket funerals.

Warbringer leaves carnage. A full blowout. Anyone that doesn’t receive a fatal blow from its bullets never fully recovers. Poison. The gun itself is just a gun, but it feels heavy in McCree’s hands, like it just doesn’t fit.

It throws him off kilter, especially in moments like this when he can take a moment to _look_ at the chaos his gun brings- the mess he leaves when he pulls the trigger. If he stares for too long, he can see the reflection of the monster he is in the pools of their blood.

Jesse finishes his cigar before he drags the bodies through the grass and autumn’s fallen leaves. The cellar will have to do for storing the bodies until he can get a tub of lye going or call in the cleanup crew. He walks the motorcycle, matte black and sleek, into the small little shed behind the cabin. He’ll have to come back for it some other time.

He takes a glance at the readout on his comm, the transport truck will be dropped off sometime this evening, and while he is normally eager to relax and take a snooze after locking down the perimeter- it’s too much time between now and then. He wants to get back to base- he wants to prove it's not Widowmaker. He can’t stand to see them wipe her clean again.

The door to the cabin opens stiffly, the inside is quiet and it puts him on edge. Transports usually scream for help, panicking, especially after two gunshots have gone off. They’re desperate for rescue and will cry until they have no voice left- it’s what makes the no neighbors policy of this cabin perfect for captives.

McCree draws Warbringer, cocks the gun slowly and stalks through the kitchen and the dining room. All clear.

In the living room, a fireplace is full of smoldering logs from a fire in moments past, and the couch is strewn with blankets - likely where one of the agents slept as there is only one bed. The cell, the one for captives, is built into the side wall of the living area. It’s made of bulletproof glass with holes cut out around the top for airflow, a door for getting in with a hatch for delivering meals, and bars reinforce the construct like a cage.

Inside, the captive is quiet and still.

The first thing that hits Jesse about the man before him is that he’s _pretty_ , but he knows that if he weren’t dangerous, someone else would have transported him to base long ago. He’s sitting with his legs crossed in the very center of his cell, arms resting on his thighs, and his eyes are closed.

He’s wearing traditional Japanese clothing, something that McCree has seen on some very rarely in the streets of hanamura, but he also knows from firsthand experience that a getup does not make a killer any less dangerous. Too many times people have laughed at his cowboy hat and his serape, only to be met with a bullet between their eyes a few seconds later.

Jesse pulls his tablet out, opening the dossier on his transport job and scans the file.

A mercenary caught moving too close to a nearby Talon outpost. Put up a decent fight, wounded two agents, killed twelve. Weapon is a bow, but is proficient in hand to hand combat as well. His employer is unknown, his identity is-

“I have been expecting you.”

A voice startles McCree, the tablet slips from his hands and falls to the ground on its corner, cracking the screen. He glares down at the piece of tech as it flickers out, going black, and then up to the captive in the cage.

Dark brown eyes watch him with a single-minded focus that rivals Jesse’s own. Expecting him? What kind of game is this guy playing at? Trying to catch him off guard, goad him into conversing until his tongue falls loose?

The cowboy sneers around his cigar, eyes narrowing. “I ain’t here to deal with none of your bullshit. If’n you know what’s good fer ya, you’ll keep your trap fuckin’ shut.” He snaps before heading back outside.

He doesn’t need the tablet or the info. He just needs to do the perimeter check and then he can take a nap until the transport truck arrives. Then he’ll load up the merc, drive him back and be done with him. Back to finding the mole- anyone but Widowmaker.

Jesse kicks a rock in frustration. Why’d he have to get stuck with the babysitting job?

-

_Smoke hangs in the bedroom, a heavy fog that burns Jesse’s eyes as he stares at the ceiling above. His heart beats rapid fire, like he’s fanning the hammer of his gun. Each pulse shakes his core._

_He’s spread eagle, black boxers silky smooth and riding up his thigh. The crisp autumn breeze whistles through the cabin, cooling his body that is warm. Too warm. He laughs, soft and low, letting the noise roll through his chest as he brings his hand up to his mouth, cigar balanced neatly between his fingers._

_“‘S good.” He says quietly, just before he takes a drag on his smoke._

_It’s unlit, whole. Yet the room feels and looks as though he’s been smoking for a good half an hour. Perhaps this is a new one._

_Jesse glances over to the bedside table. The ashtray is empty, pristine. No butts and no ash._

_Piercing blue eyes fill his gaze, their sharpness met by the quick whip that is laughter. A rich sound, threatening and soothing all at once- stilling the writhing prey caught in the predator’s grasp._

_Sharp teeth nip at his lip, drawing a gasp and that’s all those blue eyes need before lips are pressed together. Smoke billows from the wicked mouth and into his own, lightning sparks in the room, and a rumbling resounds between them as deep as thunder on the plains._

_“I have been expecting you.”_

-

The furious beeping of his comm wakes him from his slumber.

McCree’s eyes flash open, the room is clear, he is still fully dressed and he is alone. There is no storm surrounding him, no blue, and no possessive and demanding lips.

Between his fingers is an unlit cigar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonderful thanks to the McHanzo discord server for fueling my ideas.  
> So many thanks to Akirata who betas and lets me bounce ideas off of them all the time. <3
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	2. Lizard Brain

Jesse snarls angrily around his unlit cigar, lip curled like a feral animal, and shuts down the commline. He stares into nothingness as his fist curls around the comm, the metal shrieking in protest from his iron grip. Tension snapping, he tosses it at the wall, embedding it into the wood of the cabin.

Days.

 _Days_ until the next transport truck will arrive. The one meant to arrive in two hours had been intercepted, location compromised, and it will be _days_ until the heat settles in the area before they can get another one through. ‘ _Two to six days, McCree,_ ’ the boss informed him coolly over the line, ‘ _Lay low, and if you’re feeling antsy, see what you can get out of our guest._ ’.

He doesn’t want to lay low, cooped up with a prisoner who acts as though McCree is the one who is captured. Just the memory of his voice, self assured and sinuous, is enough to put the gunslinger on edge. Everything in the lizard part of his brain screams ‘danger, danger!’ when he thinks about the man in the cage.

All he wants is to close his eyes again and fall asleep once more- hopefully moving on to a less cryptic dream than one full of smoke, kisses and lightning charged eyes.

Jesse glances sidelong at his black serape, bright red patterns running along it’s edge. He used to fall asleep wrapped in his serape, a security blanket against the wild world that kept no promises. But the black one keeps him awake with discomfort, stifling any sense of peace he reaches for. He fondly remembers a time where the cool desert evenings were warmed by a tattered square of red that felt like home around his shoulders- memories that are smothered by the heavy, choking black that mocks him.

With a groan he sits up on the bed, hangs his head in his hands and starts making a mental checklist of things he needs to do if he’s going to be stuck out here for a few days with a prisoner. High risk - high priority.

The perimeter needs to be secured thoroughly. The bodies in the cellar need to be disposed of. Food; he needs to make sure there’s enough food for two for almost a week, although he’s hoping for just two days stuck out here alone.

He bites harshly at the end of the cigar in his mouth, fumbling for his lighter as he hurriedly tries to light it. Everything around him is too much. The wind whistles through the cracks in the cabin too loudly, the light of the lamp in the room is too bright, and the clothes against his skin constrict him. Overload, a deviation from the plan.

Jesse’s hand trembles slightly after he finally lights the cigar, flicking the metal lighter around in his hand. Open, on, off, shut, open, repeat. He plays with the device, the steady and sure clicks of the cap flipping open and shut creates a rhythm he can focus on.

He takes the first drag and holds it in his lungs until his vision blurs from the lack of oxygen. It mutes everything around him, equalizing his surroundings and his body. He opens his mouth and lets the smoke flow out of its own accord, caressing his face on its ascent to the heavens- the smell will linger on his skin and his hair long after his cigar is finished and the occasional whiffs will remind him to stay grounded.

The lighter clicks shut with a solid finality, jamming it back into his pocket as he rises from the bed and shuffles toward the living area, socked feet padding heavily on wooden floors. The food situation is easy to scope out first, and then he’ll know if he needs to hunt something extra or if he can spread the captive’s rations thin enough that he can eat fine and not worry with the outdoorsmanship.

He twitches, breath catching and warning signs blare in his head. Danger, danger!

It’s that voice, the prisoner. Talking to someone… a comm they hadn’t found?

McCree slows his footfalls, silently edging out of the bedroom to hear the stranger better, trying to decipher who he’s talking to.

“I felt it. Yes, it was rather… strange. I did not expect it to be him.”

Is the captive talking about him? His words flow too close together, no room for responses between his sentences- leave it to Jesse to not only get saddled with the babysitting job of a deadly merc, but one who talks to himself as well.

“This complicates things. I prepared for this journey and I prepared for this inevitability… but I did not plan for them to happen at the same time.”

Having enough, he steps out with a firm foot, a sneer on his face as he glares at the cage. “Hey!” He barks.

The stranger is sitting in the middle of the cage, still in the same position, head tilted down. The only indicator that he’s moved any since Jesse last saw him is his hair. His long golden scarf is wrapped around his wrist and hand, being gently and slowly worried between index finger and thumb, and his hair hangs to hide the profile of his face.

Jesse huffs, rolling his cigar over his bottom lip and blowing a raging plume of smoke. Deviation from the plan, he’s off course from his self-made map. “Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” He growls, warning the man in the cage and already dreading the two days he’ll be spending here.

The man responds by slowly lifting his gaze to McCree, dark brown eyes dragging up the cowboy’s body until they meet Jesse’s own. He smirks, and Jesse thinks a smirk like that has no right fitting perfectly on the face of such an asshole. “And if I do not?”

He knows better than to take this bait, to indulge in the captive’s games, so he makes a gun with his hand and pulls an invisible trigger. He mimics the sound with his mouth, closing his left eye so that his dead eye focuses entirely on the man sitting before him.

He doesn’t wait for the response, entering the kitchen to get away from the prisoner. The fridge is empty, save for a few bottles of beer that Jesse anticipates he’ll be polishing off by the end of this impromptu vacation, a carton of eggs, and what appears to be roadkill inside an unmarked plastic container. Great.

Jesse pulls open the freezer while he’s at it- one lonely pound of frozen beef is the only thing edible in there, if it could be considered such after being sat next to an open container of rat poison for god knows how long. The strangest thing, stranger than the rodenticide, is a retro child’s toy, a _Furby_ , if memory serves. It raises so many questions, he’s not inclined to think about the answer to any of them.

He slams the freezer shut and snags a beer bottle. He needs it after staring into the abominable one-eyed gaze of a dilapidated toy that unnerves him even more than the merc in the cage does. Without hesitation, he pops the cap off with his metal thumb and throw his head back with a few quick draws from the bottle. The taste makes his nose wrinkle, cursing those grunts something awful for buying something akin to water and cat piss. The more he drinks, the worse the aftertaste.

Stalking outside he grumbles to himself. Jesse wants to believe he’ll be out of here in two days, but he knows it’s gonna be the full six. He just has _that_ kind of luck.

-

_Jesse wakes up with a start, eyes flickering wildly about and assessing his surroundings. Cabin, middle of the woods with the wind whistling through the cracks, and a heavy fog of smoke suffuses the room. A familiar dream. It’s strange, he thinks, that he suddenly anticipates stormy eyes and a voice like thunder. And odder still that he is disappointed when he sees that he is firmly, and definitely alone._

_He flops back down into the bed, head swimming briefly with the motion, and breathes a huff. It’s too early to be waking, the sun isn’t even threatening to peak over the horizon, but his body hums with unease. Fingers curl desperately, trying to grasp something in the smoke-laden air, and his legs slowly sweep back and forth under the covers, chasing the cool area after his body heat leaves his sheets too warm. Restless._

_A sharp crack has him bolting upright again, and he finds himself nose to nose with a pale visage. Ghastly and haunting, the face is gaunt with dark circles underneath dull eyes and hollowed out cheeks. And if that wasn’t enough of a characterization for death, then the hole in the center of the forehead, with a thin rivulet of dark, dried fluid trailing from it, certainly was._

_A victim of his dead eye, a nameless face he’d stopped from ever smiling or shouting - from living - ever again._

_He glances away, only to find himself surrounded with countless faces and bodies, all with bullet holes right between their eyes. Jesse believes that the backs of their heads are blown out, empty, because there’s no doubt that these are the victims of Warbringer._

_“You.” One says. A woman from a street stall in Dorado who had seen too much._

_“Devil.” Says another. A former Overwatch agent he’d tracked down and taken out._

_“Monster.” Two voices seethe. The two agents from earlier who he’d caught unaware, unfairly._

_All at once the endless sea of faces scream and shout._

_“I had two kids!”_

_“I was getting married next month!”_

_“I just took a different route home that night!”_

_They overwhelm him, and just as he’s about to lash out and scream back, the face in front of him, the face that had remained impassive and staring, twitches and all others fall silent. It’s lips, her lips, dried and desiccated from years of death, open. Jesse expects words, but all that falls out is a scream, endless and piercing and soon the others are joining and he can’t take it._

_He tries to scream, but finds that nothing comes out so he draws up his knees and tries to bury his head between them with his hands on his ears. He tries to drown them out, ignore them._

_He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he wants to say. He wants them know that he’s only trying to survive but his words won’t come forth and he can’t tell them anymore. He can’t express how sorry he is, he can’t make them hear him because they are dead. If he stares for too long, he can see the reflection of the monster he is in the pools of their blood._

_Jesse sobs, but those are silent too, leaving his chest heaving until it hurts._

_Just when he’s about to break, about to grab his gun and kill them all over again, arms wrap around him and something solid presses against his back. Gentle lips run along his neck and those arms, strong and steady, pull him into a protective embrace._

_“I have you.” A deep voice speaks, echoing softly. “I am here.”_

_He melts into the hold, curling in on himself and letting the arms of the stranger keep him safe. Danger, danger! But he ignores it._

_There’s something soothing about the patterned feelings of one of the arms, a different, rough and interesting texture that pulls his focus away from the screams of the dead. All that matters are those arms and those lips and that voice - so familiar, yet so strange - that whispers sweet nothings in his ear. It assures him that he is safe, that everything will be okay, that nothing will harm him so long as he remains, tucked against a wide chest and surrounded with the scent of something heady, spiced._

-

He buries the bodies of the two agents the next day, Jesse owes them that much. He spends the entire day digging into the earth with a rusty shovel and pretends like he’s not doing this because he cares or because his dream still haunts him- a nightmare bleeding into the waking world.

He tries to pretend that he’s burying them and marking their heads with large, purposely placed rocks on the soft earth, because he can’t put them in a tub of lye. After all, if he’s going to be living in this cabin for a few more days, he will need it to bathe in. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

They are laid to rest, side by side in a semi-shallow grave, shared because Jesse is one man who can’t dig two full graves on his own in a day. He’s still holding out hope that the transport will be there after tomorrow, only two days alone in this hell with nothing to focus on.

He’s busying himself with building a house of cards on the coffee table in the living area, ignoring the insistent gaze of the prisoner. Jesse is secretly thankful that the man has remained quiet all day, but he knows it won’t last.

So he builds his house, higher and higher, sighing softly when the structure crumbles. All of his best laid plans and mental blueprints tumbling down at the slightest shake of his hand or the puff of a too heavy breath. He tries building a bigger foundation, like a person with a thick background of which they build themselves upon, but the house still falls, flimsy and weak.

“You need a better support structure.”

“Shut up.” He snaps instantly, jerking his hand and toppling the house once again. His eyebrows furrow together and he rolls his half-smoked cigar to the other corner of his lips, blowing out a plume of smoke.

Jesse begins again, doubling the cards up at the base, stronger to support more of the baggage he will put atop them.

And he’s a fool to think that the prisoner will remain quiet.

“You buried those men.”

He doesn’t respond, scowling in distaste.

“You gave them graves.”

He crumples a card in his fist- he’ll have to pull out a new deck if he wants to play solitaire later.

“You spent over half a day to give those men a rightful burial.”

“Don’t,” He snarls, turning his sharp gaze at the captive. He hasn’t moved and Jesse wonders how bad the pins and needles will be for him when they finally haul out of there. “Don’t pretend to know me.”

It sparks a challenge, he can see it in the quick flash of the stranger's eyes. Once impassive, they narrow and stare him down, piercing through him and Jesse feels a cold shiver run over the back of his neck.

A smile breaks over those lips, pearly whites concealing a threat behind them. “But I do know you, Jesse McCree.” His voice is deep and is pulls Jesse into the engagement. Danger, danger! Knowing his name is not a stretch, he’s got wanted posters and his files aren’t exactly secret, but he knows the captive is baiting him. He knows he shouldn’t respond.

But he plays into the game anyways. “And just what do you think you know?”

“I know you were a infamous member of an infamous gang- the Deadlock Rebels. You were only a child.” The stranger pauses, waiting to see if Jesse has anything to add.

He rolls his cigar again and huffs.

“I know you were part of Overwatch. Not just Overwatch, but a black ops faction, tucked away and hidden. Recruited straight from the Deadlock Rebels into Blackwatch. How badly must they have wanted you to bring down an entire gang operation just to recruit you; it spoke volumes of your deadly skill.”

Jesse stills, bites the inside of his cheek. That certainly wasn’t public knowledge. The recruitment, sure, it didn’t take a genius to figure out he hopped trains pretty fast that year, but only his commanders - Morrison and Gabe - knew that the whole sting operation had been to fetch him and his gun before the bounty hunters did.

“Better start spittin’ out something interestin’, or this game is over.” He threatens.

“Jesse James McCree, gone rogue from Blackwatch following the MIA report of a senior Overwatch agent. Reports say she was just a mentor, reporters say she was a lover.”

“Cute,” He snarls, on edge.

“Friends say she was more of a mother.”

Jesse glares, sucking in a long drag from his cigar as he waits a beat. “You done?” It’s all conjecture and public knowledge, his middle name is a lucky guess but also on his birth certificate.

The stranger dips his head, chuckling low and looking at McCree through eyelashes that have no earthly right looking the way they do. They nearly shimmer, and those eyes peering at him spark with a flash of blue, but it’s so fast that he can’t be sure he didn’t imagine it.

“I know about the train to Houston.”

His house of cards falls suddenly.

Jesse is up and huffing like a beast, he slams his fists on the glass wall between them with fury in his eyes. His safety, his survival is threatened with that knowledge. “You don’t know _shit_ ,” He slams his fists again, but the captive remains unmoved. “About no trains.”

No one can know. Talon can’t know. He’ll be sent to reconditioning, or worse, faster than the prize horse at the derby if they find out what he did on that train. He’s taken his fair share of innocent lives, all of them leaving a stone of unease in his stomach, but he couldn’t sit by while a whole train of good people were taken out. He got lucky, he’d forgotten to log supplies taken, file papers under his name, as far as all documentation showed, he wasn’t on that mission.

“Jesse McCree, outlaw, Talon Agent, cowboy- saved a whole train full of people from his own agency, even killing his comrades to ensure the safety of the passengers.” The stranger chuckles again. “Inside the skin of a ruthless killer, there is still a man.”

This captive, he threatens everything. There’s nothing stopping him from using the information as a bargaining chip against total reconditioning.

He bangs his fists on the glass again, resting his forehead against it as his body heaves with panic. Off the path of his self-made map, once again lost in a sea of possibilities because he gave into his morals one time. Because he slipped up and let his heart guide him once more instead of the logic that would keep him afloat in Talon.

“You tell anyone,” He says low, each word a weapon, “You best remember that I’ve got a bullet with your name on it.”

“And you would do well to remember that there are other places besides Talon that you may remain safe,” The stranger hums. “With your luck, I am sure you’ll be cut another deal.”

Jesse finds himself staring at the blank ceiling when he tries to sleep, replaying that day on the train over and over again. He doesn’t remember seeing the prisoner anywhere on the train. It was a risk, one he felt safe in taking because it meant he could put back some good in this world after snuffing so much of it out.

But now it risks everything.

Tears form at the corners of his eyes, he feels uncertain, underwater and drowning. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes to try and stop them from bubbling up further but it does nothing and he screams. He screams long and loud until his throat is raw and the sound gives way to sobs because his house of cards is crumbling, despite the solid base.

And he has nowhere to find good support.

-

_The room is saturated in smoke again, smothering him and yet, feeling like a comfortable blanket. It warms him, keeps him from feeling as though there’s something he needs to do. Jesse is at peace, at ease._

_He lounges in his chair, legs splayed almost obscenely. “Y’know, my ma used to read me stories at night. ‘Bout great adventurers led astray by a villain. ‘Don’t stray off the edge, here there be dragons.’ I reckon that’s usually where the best treasures were found.”_

_A roll of eyes and a scoff are his prize for his little ramble. “Don’t be ridiculous.”_

_It’s the stranger, yet it is not._

_“You asked me to tell you somethin’ bout m’self.” Jesse grumbles._

_Electric blue eyes crinkle at the edges with a genuine smile and the man approaches Jesse smoothly, rolling over him like a storm and settling atop his lap. He’s shirtless, revealing a long dragon tattoo down his arm and the scales of the dragon look_ almost real _. The man’s hair is down, swept over one shoulder and McCree is almost taken aback by just how gorgeous the man is._

_The way he gazes at Jesse, like the cowboy, the fuck up, is the most beautiful thing in the world makes Jesse feel warm. Safe._

_“And it is ridiculous that you believe dragons to be confined only to the edges of maps.” He says through a chuckle, reaching between them to pull on Jesse’s prosthetic arm. Deft fingers play with his own, testing each bend of the cybernetic limb, tracing the grooves and lights that pulse ever so faintly._

_“Why’s that?”_

_Lightning flashes outside, followed swiftly by a loud roar of thunder. The man leans in close, lips close to his ear. “Because dragons cannot be contained.” He pulls back, trailing a series of one, two, three soft kisses across Jesse’s cheek before gently rubbing their noses together. Affection._

_It is a welcome gesture, one that has Jesse beaming and leaning forward to chase when the stranger pulls away. Danger, danger!_

_But this is a dream, so he can indulge in this security he feels. He can let the feeling last as long as possible until he has to wake up to the reality of being compromised._

_“Tell me something else,”_

_“I killed my ma’s husband.” He admits, looking into those bright blues for the judgement or the fear._

_It never comes._

_Instead, hands cup his whiskered cheeks, thumbs brushing underneath his eyes. The man says nothing, but his gaze is soothing which prompts Jesse to continue._

_“I was twelve. He always beat Ma somethin’ fierce. It’d be even worse when she’d defend me from him. I thought…” He trails off, looking to the side to avoid the pity he knows will follow. “I thought he was gonna kill her one day. He’d been wavin’ his gun around, threatening Ma and I. He set it down on the kitchen, started wailin’ on her… I shot him.”_

_Strong arms fold him into a broad chest and the stranger soothes him, a noise like waves breaking along a beach in a storm._

_“We buried his body in the yard… ain’t no one come lookin’ for him either. As far as our neighbors knew, he skipped town with his young side-piece and left me and Ma in peace.” Jesse murmurs against smooth pale skin, arms wrapping around the stranger’s waist. He’s grounded here, the ghosts of his past can’t get him. Not a soul alive knows what he did for his Ma, and even though this is a dream, he can feel the weight of that burden lightening._

_Hands sift into his hair, smooth and calculative. “You are a strong man, Jesse McCree. There is so much people will expect of you, so much they will demand. I will be here, when you need sanctuary.” His voice echoes and Jesse blames it on the fact that he is pressed tight against his chest, trying to hide from the waking world._

_A hand guides his head up, soft lips lean down to capture his own in a chaste kiss. Pulling away, he finds not pity, but acceptance in those lightning eyes._

_Jesse can’t help but pull him down for another kiss, deeper, demanding more. It’s only a dream, he can afford to get lost just this once, away in a cabin on his own._

_Danger, danger! Deviation from the plan; off the path of his self-made map._

Outlaws never were that good at following directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much love to Akirata, wonderful friend and speedy beta. -kisses and hugs-
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	3. Focal Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit content at the end!

Jesse’s stomach reminds him that food is a thing.

It growls loudly at the crack of dawn, a rolling pain like something’s twisting his insides. And then it settles, pleased that its emptiness isacknowledged.

The room tips sideways as his dream fades around him, a blissful scenario of comfort and adoration that he knows he is starved for. But Jesse has to wonder, why is the face of a stranger in the dream? Is it because he doesn’t know anyone who is willing to be soft with him, or perhaps because he knows that anyone who would have been close would now rather put a bullet in his skull? A stranger means he can decide who he wants them to be.

A mysterious man who is scheduled to be part of Talon’s experiments means that he can use his pretty face and never have to worry about confusing it in the real world. He won’t have to stop himself from accidentally seeking comfort from that visage… at least, once they get him transported.

He’s tempted to fall back asleep and bury himself in welcoming arms that keep his reality from touching him. Safety and peace. A break from the ever-present threat that comes with being involved in Talon, a respite from being hunted right back by Overwatch.

The cowboy craves those gentle and understanding kisses, welcoming- a tall, cold glass of water after a day in the sun. Giving.

His stomach twists again. Demanding.

Jesse blindly palms at the floor for his jeans, pulling them on before even bothering to rise from the bed. He feels sluggish, and maybe his stomach has the right idea, food will help his energy. As he finds his black button up and tucks Warbringer in the back of his pants, he tries to imagine what in the world he could make.

He’ll need a decent meal for himself, and some scraps for the prisoner. Eggs. There was a carton of eggs. They won’t be masterfully made, with no seasonings and they might stick mostly to the pan, but they will be sustenance. And easy enough to make a bit extra for the captive.

It’s unnerving, even for Jesse, to note that the prisoner _still_ hasn’t moved from his central location in the cell. There is, of course, the thought that perhaps he’s moving when Jesse isn’t there to see it, but it’s equally off-putting that the man knows when and where to move in order to give the impression that he is a rock; immovable.

The man’s expression doesn’t change, but Jesse can see it in the way his shoulders pull back, prepared to be the victor in whatever he plans to engage with the cowboy. Jesse sets his jaw and stalks straight up to the front of the cell and pulling Warbringer out. He pops open the chamber and empties the bullets, unused.

He whistles a jaunty little tune he learned back in the day, the words long forgotten and the tempo slowed with age, but it calms the sharpshooter all the same. It keeps his head even while he plays mind games.

One by one he loads the bullets back into the chamber, save for a solitary round. He holds it up like a prize, appraising it and making sure that the stranger’s eyes are on it before he speaks. “This one right here,” He moves to the small table where his pile of cards, the remains of crumbled houses, lays and sets the bullet down by it’s lonesome, like a target. “Your name.” He sneers.

He makes a mistake, and he knows it by the way the man tilts his head and smiles, pretty and sharp with just the barest hint of teeth. A hunter who knows prey has fallen into its trap. “How can that be when you do not even know my name, Jesse James McCree?”

His nostrils flare, a bull ready to charge the red cape. It’s bait, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t rise right to it. Jesse walks up close to the cell, staring down its occupant with a snarl. This man is a wrench in the gears - a rock thrown into the lake of his fate, ripples breaking the calm.

“And who’s fault is that?” He seethes.

The stranger laughs, deep and throaty. A sound that makes Jesse hate himself. As much as he wants to put a bullet between the eyes of the captive, he hopes he’ll dream of laughter like that.

“Yours, if I recall. I cannot imagine that your superiors will be pleased that you broke the tablet.” His sharp gaze lands on the broken device, tossed on the couch and forgotten.

He’s right, and Jesse concedes as much with following his gaze and silence. He purses his lips, bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from agreeing openly with the statement. He has problems enough with keeping his head afloat at Talon, he doesn’t need the weight of a stranger’s observations dragging him further into the mire. Down, down, down until he can’t see the surface and loses every piece of himself that he fights so hard to tuck away safely for another day.

“You do not have to remain with them.” The stranger’s voice is soothing, cutting the silence something sinister because Jesse knows those words aren’t true. Once upon a time, maybe it would be, maybe he would have had somewhere to run to, but not anymore.

The man stares at Jesse until he finds he can’t look away, gaze locked, and then he stands. He doesn’t move, he flows. He takes the single step forward needed to be scant inches away from Jesse; the only barrier is the glass and bars of the cell. “I know of some place safe.”

Jesse wants to scream, wants to believe those words. That word, _safe_. He is tired and his time spent alone in this cabin with nothing to fixate on besides his house of cards and a stranger tells him that it’s showing. The way he cares enough to want it not be Widowmaker, the way he buried those grunts in the ground and gave them a better grave than Talon will ever give anyone, it all reminds him that he can’t keep this up forever.

One day he will die, or they will see his weaknesses and take them from him.

He craves the security. So much so that he dreams of the stranger and gives him the capability to defend Jesse from anything - even from himself. He decorates that safe place with things that bring him comfort: storms, spices, and strong arms with scales like armor. Jesse is a man who has endured much in his time, and while he is able to survive on his own, it’s nice to set the gun down for once… even if it’s only in his dreams.

“Nowhere is safe from Talon.” He says grimly before heading into the kitchen.

-

The eggs were a bust, two months past their date with a smell that could knock a lesser man off his feet. The meat he remembered, was three years aged and the Furby had gazed deep into Jesse’s soul and mocked him for thinking things would be easy. It was never easy for him.

So he goes hunting to procure something that will stop the awful twist in his stomach. He digs traps out of a closet and sets them around the outside of the cabin. A hunting rifle is buried in the basement, thankfully so - he knows the damage from Warbringer will make anything he kills inedible.

He finds a hunting blind some ways out from the cabin and settles in to wait. Jesse’s stomach rebels, making him grit his teeth and swallow a groan of pain. It concerns him; he’s been hungry after days without food before, but it has never felt like this. Stress, probably, is wearing away at his body. Worry over Widowmaker makes him light headed and the panic about the train, and about the fact that someone knows and has the capability to tell, pulls his chest tight.

It feels like ages, just him and an unlit cigar being slowly chewed apart, before a doe enters his vision. He puts his eye to the sights and patiently waits until he can get a clear shot at her head. A quick kill, no suffering, and most of her will go to use. ‘ _Don’t waste what the earth gives freely’_ his mama always told him.

The doe freezes and looks right at him and as he pulls the trigger, Jesse wonders if his mama is still making those beaded necklaces for the locals.

He closes his eyes when he hears the creature drop to the ground. It’s not a person, he has to remind himself. He’s going to survive off of her, put her bones to rest and make sure he uses all he can of her. If that means the cabin gets a new pelt for the floor, so be it.

Jesse sets the rifle down on the floor of the blind and climbs out. He carefully picks his way over to the doe, wondering which parts will spoil fastest, because he’ll eat those first. Any gamey pieces will be scraps for the stranger.

There’s a rustle, making him pause, and suddenly the doe jolts up from the ground. There’s a graze right over the top of her head, splitting skin and spilling blood, but her skull remains intact. She’s scared, suffering, but not down for the count. She blitzes at him, not on purpose, he just happens to be in her way as she blots.

He goes down, hitting the ground with his back and knocking the wind out of his lungs. Jesse’s vision swims, the sky darkens and when he finally sits up, he’s face to face with a ghost.

It’s Lena, her visage sad and pitying as she crouches over him. She loved him, a big brother who always had her back and been the first not to treat her like a glass doll when they got her back. He’d hugged her tight and let her cry because she thought they’d never get the chance to do so again. She loved him and he’d turned his back on her family, hunting them down… he knows she’s somewhere on the list and he dreads the day they manage to get a hold of her.

A gunshot rings out and Jesse watches as the light fades from her eyes, a trickle of blood flowing down the side of her nose and she falls sideways, her small frame swallowed by the overgrowth of dying grass and fallen leaves.

There are more gunshots and Jesse looks around to find more of Overwatch, all the people he knew and cared for, waved hello to, fade and drop to the ground. The repetition of gunshots and bodies hitting the woodland ground is steady, a drum of war in his head because that’s what he is waging against them. He is the messenger of battle, Talon is here to exterminate and Overwatch are their targets.

He sees Angela, wants to shout for her to run before it’s too late. She’s not on the list, after seeing former agents dead, she refused to put her work at jeopardy and claim affiliation with Overwatch. She knew Jesse was hunting them. She knew he could never kill an angel and spared him the thought of having to worry about it.

She looks around, stepping over the bodies of people she had once loved, more than he could’ve ever loved them. Her fingers brush along the handle of Reinhardt’s hammer, jutting out of the ground where it had fallen in his death. Angela looks at the cowboy, fear and tears in her wide eyes.

And she wails.

She falls to her knees, and she cries, a sound so heartbreaking that Jesse shoves Lena’s body off of him, scurrying back as far as he can until his back hits a tree. But that sound, that awful crying echoes and grows louder so he tries to curl up and shield himself from it. He knows she will cry for every fallen friend.

He covers his ears and tucks himself away, trying to disappear because this isn’t what he needs right now. His stomach rebels, twisting for attention and he can’t focus on blocking out Angela’s crying and dealing with the pain at the same time. He breaks, sobbing softly and praying for some release from this hell he’s created for himself.

A shadow falls over him and he clenches his eyes shut. Hands grab at his ankles, pulling his legs out. Jesse kicks and shouts because it’s the corpses of the people on his list, trying to drag him to hell before he can do more harm.

There’s a gentle rush, waves rolling in, and he peers out, finding the stranger at his feet. His hands tug at his ankles once more and Jesse allows his legs to be straightened out, only long enough for the man to settle on his lap, straddling him, and then he tucks them back up as much as he can.

He hears Angela wail again and when he tries to twist and get out of this nightmare, hands cup his face. Thumbs tenderly brushing under his eyes again and into his beard, the sound of waves all around him still. “Focus on me, Jesse.” The stranger beckons, leaning over the cowboy and caging him in.

Jesse knows he ought to feel trapped, a cornered animal with nowhere to flee, but the man is grounding and Angela’s crying seems to fade just a bit. He grabs onto the man’s arms, holding on for his life as he tries to pull himself together.

Underneath his fingertips, he feels scales again. He looks at the arm and wonders why he picked the image of a dragon to impose upon the man’s arm, the scales along the inked creature so real, textured with a soft iridescent shimmer. They are smooth beneath his fingers as he runs his fingers down the beast, but in reverse they are rough and grating, catching against his callouses. He’s never seen the stranger’s arms and thinking too deeply about the dragon is distracting him from the soulless bodies of Overwatch all around.

He grips the other man tightly, fabric rips in the pneumatic grasp of his prosthetic and his fingernails dig against scaled skin.

The man curls further over him, shielding him. “Jesse?” He’s worried.

“Tell me somethin’ ‘bout yerself.” He’s desperate to forget the bulletholes in their heads, to drown out the angel’s wails. Desperate enough to pretend like this man in his dreams means something and is actually capable of getting him through this muddy road he calls his life.

“You know me.”

“‘Course I do, yer that fella in the cell.”

The stranger laughs softly and invades his space more. “Yes, that is me. But even then, you know him.”

Jesse looks up, confused. “I don’t know ya at all. Don’t even know yer name.”

“We once met, when we were younger. And you have heard stories about me, ones that I’m sure made you hate me until they faded from memory.”

“They ain’t faded.” Jesse amends, lost in the way the man gazes at him. Brown eyes this time, soft and inviting, promising the same safety he promised aloud in the waking world. “Tucked away.” He’s trying to convince himself, he realizes. Because if he’s forgotten, it means that Talon has been brainwashing him without even having to put forth the effort…

He’s been doing it for them. Forgetting what makes him human, what makes him feel good and  kept him sane in the darkest hours of his life. People he could use right now… but instead they are dead all around him.

“Tell me about the time I met ya.” He whispers, nearly pleads, pulling at the stranger’s top, shaking because he can’t handle the breakdown and the revelations of who he’s becoming all at once. He just needs to focus. _Focus on me, Jesse._

“I will give you hints.” He smiles, not cruel, but encouraging. “It was just outside the limits of Hanamura, spring time around eleven years ago now.”

“I remember that. Blackwatch OP. Investigating omnic trafficking.” He mulls over what he recalls. Gabe was the lead, he and another young recruit were scouts, posing as college kids on a vacation abroad. Obnoxious photos every ten feet and an abused translation book. They had learned enough Japanese to get around well, but it was fun to purposely ask people where they could go to ‘fuck the walrus’, playing ignorant to the conversations around them. “What were ya doin’ there.”

“Dumping a body.” The answer is precise, but filled with… regret? Mourning? He can’t tell. “Dumping might be the wrong word… _placing_ a body. So that it might be purposely found.”

“Was it?”

The stranger frowns. “You do not remember finding it?”

He panics, drowns in the feeling of getting lost because he doesn’t remember. He can’t remember that and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s pushed it out of his mind or if it’s because he was so used to bodies then, that another body wasn’t memorable.

“You do not remember finding someone… barely breathing?”

Jesse calms as the memory fades in, nods. “Genji.” Green hair matted with blood, body so sliced up that Gabe had run over and used his own clothes to try and stop the bleeding, barking orders for Jesse to call Angela. They needed a medic or their inside informant was going to die. “You put him there, in that alley?”

The man nods, solemn. “He did not deserve the fate brought upon him, but I was left with no choice.”

It flows back, softly like a trickle of water in a spring rain, down the hill and contributing to the lake of memories. Jesse ran into someone that night, bumping shoulders and turning back to catch a glimpse of long dark hair and dark brown eyes reddened with tears. He remembers a picture Genji showed him once, of that same face, scowling with his mouth but smiling with his eyes. A man in the wind, a mercenary.

But he can’t recall a name.

-

When Jesse wakes, it’s only his body on the ground in the woods. No dead friends, no angels crying, and, perhaps the only thing disappointing the cowboy, no stranger boxing him in. It’s just him and a blooming pain in his chest from getting trampled by the doe- no broken bones, but a sharp sting that foretells of a discolored bruise forming on his left side, just under his pectoral. He regrets leaving his chest armor back at the cabin.

He slogs back to the cabin, hungry and sore but much too exhausted to do anything beyond checking the rabbit traps - no dice. He can only hope and wait.

To Jesse’s surprise, the captive is sitting with his back against the front-facing wall of the cell. He’s fiddling with his hands, murmuring softly to himself and doesn’t stop when Jesse enters the room. He flops down on the couch with a grunt because that’s about as far as he can make it.

The quiet, deep voice of the man soothes Jesse, even if he can’t make out what he’s saying. He knows better than to let it happen, the comfort of his dreams bleeding into reality, but he can’t bring himself to care. And after the nightmare in the woods, he thinks it’ll be okay to let it happen just this once.

His eyes slide shut.

It’s the sudden silence that pulls Jesse from his nap, makes him drag his eyes over to the cell, only to find it empty. He jolts, tries to sit up, but a weight in his lap keeps him from moving.

Looking down, he’s met with blue eyes sparking just as lightning flashes outside the window. A storm rolling in.

“Who are you?” He asks, because he can’t remember the name. Genji never spoke long of it and McCree wasn’t the the kind of friend to pry.

The man, kneeling between Jesse's legs, folds his arms across his lap and lays his head down. He smiles, one that proves he is up to no good. “You know who I am.” He says simply.

Jesse reaches down, threads his fingers through inky locks and the stranger _purrs_ at the attention, at least, that’s the best way Jesse can describe it. A pleased rumble from the man’s very being. He takes a chance. “Shimada.”

Thunder rumbles outside the cabin and the purring increases. “Yes, that is my family name.” He pauses, tilts his head to look up at Jesse, and then surges up. He grabs Jesse’s hair in a tight grip and kisses him, he devours and takes and only yields when the need for oxygen arises.

It shouldn’t feel as good as it does. He desires comfort and companionship above all, but the kiss stokes a fire in his gut. Demanding lips and greedy hands have him keening aloud, wordlessly begging for more.

If he can focus on the way Shimada steals his breath and pulls at Jesse like he might escape, he doesn’t have to think about Talon or Overwatch.

Hell, he can almost dream that the promised sanctuary actually exists.

All too soon, Shimada pulls away, standing. “Keep thinking on it.” He coos, leaning down and pressing another, firm kiss to Jesse’s lips. “I have something for you.” He kisses him again before disappearing into the kitchen.

Jesse takes a moment to collect himself, catching his breath and trying to calm the pleasant buzz all through his body. He wants; for the first time in years, he thinks solely about himself and damns the consequences.

He gets up and slinks to the entry of the kitchen, watching Shimada neatly slice cooked meat. The smell makes his mouth water.

“Your traps went off. Rabbit.” The man pauses, reaching over and tapping a large pot with the blunt edge of his knife. “That is for you.”

Jesse could care less. Presents from a dream won’t matter when he wakes up. When he makes no comment, Shimada sets down the blade and turns to him, eyebrow raised in question. The cowboy makes strong strides, approaching swiftly and grabbing at his bared tattoo, sliding his hands along it, and he swears the scales _ripple_.

Shimada doesn’t hide the way his eyes rake up Jesse’s body, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to the cowboy. He smiles and licks his lips.

The motion draws Jesse’s attention just in time to see him mouth the word “Greedy.” And it shouldn’t set him on fire like it does.

Suddenly he’s being lifted, a flutter going through his chest at the notion of how strong the other man is, and set on the counter. He’s kissed and pawed at until the buttons on his shirt tear free - three survive, two gone- and the garment falls open. Shimada purrs low, pleased, and lets his hands wander over Jesse’s chest, fingers combing through swathes of hair.

Jesse wraps his arms around broad shoulders, parting his legs to that Shimada can slot between them. Lightning flashes in rapid fire succession outside, mirroring the hot kisses trailed under his scruffy jaw. Shimada is right, he’s greedy; greedy and desperate for the sort of affection he can’t have in the waking world.

His stomach roils and roars, twisting painfully and he grimaces into the next kiss.

“Here,” Shimada says softly, parting from him and bringing a piece of the cooked rabbit to his lips. Electric blue eyes watch raptly as Jesse eats it, and then another, and another.

Each small hunk of meat settles heavy in his stomach until the need to eat weighs less than his desire to have those hands on him again. To have a wicked mouth to his throat once more. He grins, and when the next piece of rabbit is presented to him, he leans forward, capturing Shimada’s fingers with his mouth.

Jesse meets his gaze as he slowly releases the digits, swirling his tongue as he pulls away. He’s pleased with the intense glare he receives for his actions, delighted at the dilation in Shimada’s eyes while he nibbles at the ends of his fingertips.

“That is playing dirty, Jesse.” The man murmurs, hands going for the cowboy’s belt buckle.

“I don’t recall any rules bein’ set, darlin’.” He teases, fingers plucking at the tie around Shimada’s waist.

It must have been the wrong move because his wrists are seized in a tight, one handed grip - a hand that belongs to an expert at restraining foes, why would Jesse be any different? Bright eyes fix him with an unwavering glower, and after what feels like an eternity, Shimada moves.

He unwinds the silk hair tie from around his wrist and uses it to snuggly bind Jesse’s own together in front of him. He smiles, predatory. “Rule one: you do not get to touch until you say my name.”

Jesse makes to protest, but fingers are pressed to his lips, Shimada’s smile widening as the cowboy opens his mouth to accommodate three digits. He ducks his under Jesse’s arms and stands, free hand making quick work of the gaudy belt buckle and the zipper of his jeans.

Shimada is quick to take his half hard cock in hand, working it to his full attention with a skillful touch. He drags a groan from Jesse and leans in close, nipping at his ear. “What is the matter, cowboy?” He purrs. “You will have to speak up if you want something.”

Jesse’s throat is peppered with fierce kisses, soft lips hiding sharp teeth that bite at his neck with no remorse. He makes sure to leave lasting marks, the dark sort that Jesse knows will stay for days after - the kind he enjoys, the kind that made him keep a lover for a second night. Between bites and kisses, the mercenary whispers ‘ _right there_ ’ and ‘ _perfect_ ’ and praises that get lost in the space between them.

Shimada continues to work Jesse, almost lazily, not hard enough for the cowboy to get much satisfaction from it, just enough for a distraction. He’s being used, he knows it in the way that Shimada ruts against the inside of Jesse’s thigh, getting just as much, if not more, pleasure out of the situation.

All the while, his fingers dig into Jesse’s mouth, firm and demanding with promises of something more. The stimulation, the attention, and the frenzied need to touch the man back, has him drooling, smearing onto Shimada’s palm and all over his beard. He’s not a complete wreck, but he knows that it will happen with very little effort on the other man’s behalf. He’s greedy. He’s needy. And just as Shimada is taking from him, he’s taking back in turn.

The fingers are finally removed from his mouth, only to be replaced by a bruising kiss. His head feels light, and Jesse can’t tell if it’s from lack of breath or from the hand on his cock, but it’s slowly driving him insane.

Shimada switches hands, and the spit covered fingers and palm glide along his dick with more purpose, drawing him closer and closer. “You know, Jesse.” He coaxes.

The cowboy tightens his bound arms, pulling the other man closer as he uses Shimada’s shoulders for leverage to buck into the circle of his hand. “I don’t.” He says, nearly sobbing when the hand slows down and his hips are pinned down. He’s at the mercy of a Shimada who wants something he can’t give. “Please,” He begs.

“Say it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

He tries, fights through the haze of lust to recall hazy memories and mentions surrounding the elder Shimada. There has to be a name somewhere. It’s on the edge of his tongue, unwilling to spill. “Shimada…” He pleads, because he can’t focus, can’t drudge through the memories he’s buried while he’s teetering on a fine edge of pleasure and frustration.

The man snarls, ducking and biting harshly at his throat, the message clear that he means business. It makes Jesse shout, makes him shudder and keen and a name slips and tumbles from his lips. “Hanzo!”

He hopes it’s the right name, hopes his dream won’t torment him by turning into a nightmare where he scorns a lover with the wrong name. A deep chuckle and a speed in tempo soothes the worry, so he repeats it. He says the name over and over like a mantra because every time he does, the man picks up his pace, drags him closer and closer to the edge.

He shouts the name a final time as he spills, body tense and strung.

Shimada - Hanzo - continues rutting against his thigh until his end, yanking Jesse into a teeth-clattering kiss, groan drowned out by a crack of thunder that takes out the lights.

They remain together as the backup generator kicks on, illuminating the cabin. In the dimmed lights, he can see the glow. A bright blue dragon coils along Hanzo’s arm, scales flickering with bioluminescence down the length of the serpent. The man’s eyes are brighter than Jesse’s ever seen them, flashing when lightning whips outside.

He doesn’t just act like a storm, he _is_ the storm.

“Hanzo,” He says carefully, because there’s still a chance that he was wrong, still a chance that the man just got caught up in the moment and went with it.

He grunts in acknowledgement, leaning over and resting his head on Jesse’s shoulder.

“I’d like my hands untied, if ya don’t mind.”

Hanzo chuckles, ducks out from the loop of his arms and hastily undoes the tie, kissing his wrists as they are freed- even the metal one. He gropes around for a towel, cleaning Jesse with care, fixing up his shirt the best he can and kissing his chest above every button he does up before he can’t anymore.

The cowboy tucks himself back in, zipping up his pants and cinching his belt back in place. He grins wildly at Hanzo, because as far as dreams go, this is the best he’s had in awhile. No nightmares, no sad tales  dragged out of the closet. Just company and care, even if none of it’s real.

He’s lifted again, and doesn’t need to be told twice to wrap his legs around Hanzo’s waist, arms draped over shoulders he’s finding himself coming to adore. He hopes this man will stay around in his dreams, long after he’s been taken away in the real world.

They fall into the bed, tangled in each other, exhausted and smiling - Jesse grins like a fool and Hanzo smirks like he’s got a secret.

Sweet kisses are shared, and Jesse touches like he yearns to do. He touches his face and his arm, his tattoo, but when he tries to move clothes to touch more, his wrists are grabbed again.

“Not tonight.” Hanzo says, suddenly closing off.

Jesse blinks and nods. “Whatever ya say, darlin’, just know I’m dyin’ to feel all of ya.”

He’s kissed again, short and simple, pounds of feelings behind it that he can’t decipher and doesn’t bother, it’s just a dream. “You will, that I promise.”

The cowboy wiggles closer, pressing his face under Hanzo’s chin and wrapping his arms around his chest. He inhales the spice and charcoal smell surrounding him, listens to his heartbeat. It sounds on the fast side, and he swears there’s an echo to it, but he drifts away before he can question it.

_Focus on me, Jesse._

-

It’s not hunger, silence, or nightmares that wake him this time. It’s the loud beeping of his communicator going off. In fact, he finds that his stomach feels rather full and the edges of his dream still cling to him.

Jesse picks up the comm and answers it, listening to the monotone drone of a grunt feed him information. The transport will be moving soon, mid afternoon at the latest. He tosses the comm aside as soon as the grunt stops talking and heads for the bathroom.

His face feels gross, likely from drooling in his sleep - it wouldn’t be the first time. But when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he freezes, heart seizing. Red marks litter his neck, some are hickies and others are clear bite marks.

A dream. It was a dream… right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biggest thanks still to Akirata who listens to me go on and on about this fic, gives me wonderful ideas, and is just a great friend. Ilu <3
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	4. Sandman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aki hates when I thank them.... so now I'm blaming them. This is all Aki's fault!  
> Also, this is not a song fic, but this chapter has a lot of music.

Thank goodness for small miracles.

Jesse, dumbfounded, trying not to think about what may or may not be real, digs through the closet in the small bedroom. He finds plenty of thick jackets for the winter season, and a solitary shortsleeve shirt - the miracle is the turtleneck. It covers everything on his neck and shoulders, despite the tight fit. It stretches across his chest and as uncomfortable as the form-fitting clothing makes him, it’ll do until he can get back to base and change into his own stuff.

He leans on the sink and stares at his face, dark circles forming underneath his eyes. His eyes drops to his chin, his beard is messier than usual and he feels a hot flush when he remembers why. Or at least, why he thinks.

Jesse’s quick to turn on the tap, scooping up a handful of water and wash his face, uses his fingernails to try and put his beard in some form of order. The cool liquid feels refreshing on his skin, so he does it again and again, slopping water all over his face. He holds it cupped to his mouth and nose, and holds his breath until he can’t anymore. When he needs to breath, he lets the water spill from his hands and into the sink with a splash.

“Fuck…” He murmurs to himself.

He looks at his wrist, sees a faint line of red from where he tugged at his restraints. He’d been so desperate to bury his hands into whatever he could of the other man, _greedy_ to have something for himself.

Jesse tries to still the trembling in his fingers, but he can’t seem to gain control of his own body.

He has so many questions, but any answers he’s likely to get will just lead to nothing but more questions. How did the man get out of the cell and why would he willingly go back in?

Why Jesse? What was he after? Why was he insistent on Jesse knowing his name?

He closes his eyes and chews at the inside of his cheek. Real or not or something in between, he needs to ignore this. He wants to ignore this because in just a few short hours, the captive will be towed away and Jesse will never see him again.

Jesse slips quietly out into the living room. To his surprise, the captive is not sitting in the center of the cell, but sleeping. He’s on his side, head resting on his bicep, face lax and calm in his sleep. It’s a vaguely different from the passive face he’s seen for the past few days, and leaps and bounds away from the face he’s dreamt about.

There is nothing predatory and calculating in the way he sleeps. Nothing sinister and wicked hidden beneath soft breaths.

But there is the matter of his other hand, curled tightly to his chest, clutching onto something and Jesse is reminded of the dream - or was it just a brush of reality before sleep took hold; did sleep even take hold at all? - and of the prisoner fiddling with something in his hands with his back to the wall. Hoarding something precious.

He says nothing, moves as slow as it takes to not make a sound and heads to the kitchen. He spies his hat upon the table and doesn’t remember putting it there. Jesse sees a plate of cooked meat left out, sliced neatly into even pieces. He’d bet the farm that it’s rabbit.

As much as his mind tries to reject that anything on that counter ever happened, he’s not one to let food go to waste. He grabs the plate and makes his way back to the living room.

He sets up at the coffee table, plate to one side and works on his house of cards, busying his mind and his hands. Every so often he reaches over to snag a piece of rabbit, ignoring how the taste drags up memories that _aren’t real_.

Coaxing fingers and sharp eyes watching as each piece passed by his lips.

Jesse builds house after house, huffing quietly when they eventually fall, mindful of not waking the captive. He reasons that he’s careful because if he wakes the man, he has to face what he can’t begin to unravel. Certainly not because he can’t find it in himself to disrupt the peace surrounding him.

Suddenly the man shifts, adjusts and settles. Murmurs something that sounds vaguely like Jesse’s name on a sigh.

It drags curiosity out of Jesse, makes him wonder about names. Is the man’s name honestly Hanzo? Is he truly related to Genji, and if so, what sort of hell is that going to rain down on Jesse’s future? If he remembers anything about Genji, it’s that he’s a passionate spitfire, and there’s no second thought that the ninja would gut Jesse in a flash for some of the things he’s done.

Hanzo, he assumes until shown otherwise, shifts again and his fist loosens, spilling his trinkets - gold shells and shiny tops. Bullets and bottle caps shove away lingering doubts that Hanzo has been able to get out of the cage.

Jesse worries a card in his hands, his fingernails scratching at its surface, brow furrowed in thought as he tries to reason _how_ and _why_.

The only openings in the glass are four-inch diameter holes for airflow, barely big enough for a small fist to fit through. The only explanation he can think of off the top of his head relates the man to Reaper - the hired merc is able to escape through objects with even the smallest opening to wiggle his wraith-like form into.

Perhaps that’s what the strange, entrancing blue shimmer is that he’s seen in his dreams. Instead of shadows, Hanzo flows like electricity, sharp and quick. Unseen, but not always unheard.

But, then why stick around? Why not run? Why torment Jesse and then return to the cell, making the cowboy question what events are real and what events are not?

Jesse draws his knees up and tucks his head down, willing the spiral of confusing thoughts away, keeping the rising panic at bay. _Focus on me, Jesse_. He makes a frustrated noise because that is exactly the problem right now. He’s too focused on Hanzo, too curious and too affected.

And nothing he’s doing is stopping the rising swell of storm clouds over his mind.

“What is wrong?”

He takes in a slow draw of air, raising his head in a sluggish manner. He pulls his knees together, resting his head on top of them and turns his gaze to the cage.

Warm brown eyes stare at him, worry evident in their gaze. Jesse tries not to think about how pretty they are or how his chest tightens because those eyes aren't the adoring blue he dreams about.

“You," he spits, mustering as much venom as he can. Comfort aside, Hanzo is still a threat to his survival. His routine, his sense of balance, pried loose and sent adrift.“Ya fucked everythin' up.”

Hanzo sits up, looks at his spilled treasures and gathers them quickly, tucking them away inside his top. “Jesse,” he says and the cowboy hates the way it makes his heart race; hates the way that Hanzo’s eyes sharpen as if he _knows_. “I can keep you safe.”

Jesse laughs, a sudden bark of disbelief. “Where? Inside that lil’ cage? Is that why you keep scurryin’ back in there instead of fuckin’ off like any sane fella would?”

“A cabin at the base of the alps. Hidden from all but a few.”

“Then why are ya tellin’ me?”

Something flickers in those eyes - a sharp hunger that Jesse loathes to admit is familiar. “Because I wish to take you there?”

He sneers at such whims because he knows, better than most, there is no such thing as escaping from Talon.

“You know I can escape; come with me, Jesse.”

Jesse stands, about to demand answers. Why? Why Jesse? Is this some sort of new assassination tactic, get the target killed by getting them in trouble with people who wouldn’t think twice about ending him?

He opens his mouth when Hanzo whips his head to the side suddenly, eyes sharp and narrowed. “Someone is here.”

Sure enough, the harsh humming of a vehicle grows louder and closer. The transport arriving, all chances of escape gone. Hanzo is under the thumb of Talon now, and unless he’s far more slippery than Jesse suspects, the only way he’s leaving is in a bodybag.

Jesse lets out a rough breath and steels himself, falling into the skin of an unfeeling, high-up agent. Becoming a man who gives all to Talon and takes nothing for himself - a man who isn’t greedy, a man who doesn’t mourn the dead or seek comfort in dreams of a man with a tattooed arm.

He approaches the side of the cage where the entry point is, grabbing shackles off the wall as he presses his flesh thumb to the hatch-pad. The scanner identifies him and logs the activity, the system will tell anyone who asks that it was he who opened the man’s cage.

The sharp hiss of the door release draws Hanzo’s attention, his demeanor changing when he notices the cuffs in the cowboy’s hand. He makes a motion like taking a step back, but Jesse knows that he’s grounding himself, preparing to strike. He bares his teeth slightly with a curl of his lip, a silent threat.

When Jesse reaches for him, he twists away, snarling like a beast.

“Don’t,” Jesse’s voice breaks, quiet and pleading because if anyone hears him, he’s done for. “Don’t make this harder than it’s gotta be, Hanzo. Ya had yer chances to leave.”

Something does the trick, stifles the rising fury of the man. He allows for Jesse to get close, to turn him around a lock his wrists in the thick manacles behind his back. “Will you say it again?” The words are so soft that if he didn’t recognize the man’s voice, Jesse would have assumed it was a noise of the wind.

He worries the inside of his cheek, considers the consequences. The grunts aren’t near enough, there are no open comms, but he can feel the twist in his chest because he’s grown attached. Despite the constant reminder to himself that it was a dream, that this man isn’t the same as the man with scales, and the knowledge that he’ll never see this man again, he’s tangled himself into some part of Hanzo.

The cowboy ducks his head low, near enough so that the other man can hear him when he gives into the last wish of a dead man walking. “‘M sorry, Hanzo.” Jesse feels the man relax some in his grip and can’t stop the rest from spilling from his mouth. “I hope ya stick ‘round in my dreams.”

Because he’s greedy. Because he knows he’ll need to run to a safe space and these days, those are hard to come by.

They both stand there, unwilling to move and face the world that awaits them outside of the cabin. A world where Jesse is one of the most wanted men around and Hanzo is a prisoner that will likely never see the sun again.

“I do too.”

“Why didn’t ya leave?” He needs to know.

Hanzo glances at him over his shoulder, inky locks falling from his shoulders. “I told you - I know somewhere safe,” He looks away. “And I am not leaving without you.”

He doesn’t understand, the man doesn’t know him. He doesn’t truly know the man either and Jesse isn’t worth it. He should be left to rot in Talon’s ranks, fester in his own mind as he dreams of what could have been if he’d made different choices.

Jesse pushes forward, leads Hanzo outside - or perhaps he is lead by Hanzo, he’s too dazed, too lost in his thoughts to tell - and into the awaiting hands of some labor-grunts. They will drive him to base, lock him up, and that will be the last the world ever sees of Hanzo Shimada.

As soon as they touch him, the sense of calm over the captive snaps, the wild beast returns, thrashing in the clutches of the grunts. “Do not touch me!” He snarls.

He steps back, alarmed by the sudden ferocity in which Hanzo struggles and whips around like the winds of a storm, enraged. He fights with the grunts who grab him, their clumsy paws rippings at Hanzo’s top, tearing a sleeve at the shoulder and exposing his arm.

The sight steals away Jesse’s breath.

A dragon amidst a tempest, scales gleaming as it twists its sinewy body down Hanzo’s arm, claws holding for purchase against his skin. A creature and design that Jesse had been sure was borne of his own imagination, mixing storms and his ma’s comforting stories together in a dream that chased away nightmares with a beautiful face.

His gaze darts up, catching scales erupting over sharp cheekbones - pulsing once, twice with a vibrant blue, and then gone in a flash. He locks eyes with Hanzo for what feels to be an eternity, and the only thing that breaks them apart is Hanzo being shoved into the transport and the bay door of the truck slammed shut between them.

The truck is long gone when Jesse finally moves from his spot, the world around him feeling muddled and hazy. He trudges back inside, dons his chest armor and grabs his black serape, folding it haphazardly over his shoulders.

Jesse checks the room, makes sure nothing of his is left behind, cleans the cards up from the coffee table and disposes of any leftover rabbit. He takes a break, lighting a cigar and playing with the lighter to calm his frazzled senses, the disbelief shaking him. Open. On. Off. Close.

All that’s left is to grab his hat from the table and he can head back to base- he thinks he’ll take the scenic route on his motorcycle, try to clear his head and chase away whatever is eating at his brain before facing the boss. He grabs the headgear as he passes it, but the sharp _clack_ of something falling to the ground stops him.

He turns, looks at the table, then to the ground and sees a skull. A small rabbit skull, cleaned but not yet bleached. “ _That is for you_.” Hanzo had cleaned the skull for him.

A gift in return for all of the trinkets he’d acquired from Jesse. A skull for bullets and bottle caps.

Jesse swipes his thumb over the top of the object, callouses catching slightly over ridges and points. It feels good, tactile, interesting beneath his fingers and it distracts him. Despite the origin of the object, he thinks little of the mysteries surrounding Hanzo and more of what piece of the rabbit is he feeling.

It’s death made solid, but unlike the blood he spills, he can’t see his reflection. There’s no monster.

-

He gets back to base hours later, but it feels like the trip was far faster than the drive out to the cabin. More than once he stops along the side of the stretch of two lane highway to sit and rub at the skull when his mind starts to wander too far down the rabbit hole.

Jesse stands in front of the boss’ doors, worrying the bone once more before tucking it away. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. His chest armor and holster are already in his quarters, there’s nothing left to do besides open the doors.

His palm rests on one of the panels, ready to push but he can’t find the strength.

“Are you going to stand out there all day, Mr. McCree?” Boss’ voice calls out, jolting him into action.

He enters swiftly, not even bothering to sit. He eyes the man behind the desk who looks absolutely thrilled with something on his monitor, a look on his face that curdles in Jesse’s stomach. Boss taps a few things on his desk, the screens flashing before he closes them all. He folds his hands, rests his chin on top of his knuckles and gives Jesse a once over.

His eyes stop on his shoulders and neck, narrowing, traveling down and then back up again and Jesse’s blood runs cold. He can’t know, there’s no possible way that he could know about the marks that cover his shoul-

“Lay off the KFC, Mr. McCree.” He remarks, eyes meeting with Jesse’s.

The cowboy feels the blood rush to his face and looks away quickly, unwilling to challenge Boss’ gaze. The comment smarts, a sharp whip on his esteem but a memory of eyes so appraising of his form and hands so willing to touch and grab make an attempt to sooth the sting.

The man pulls up a screen again and taps a few more buttons. “I’ve given you a three day mission with Widowmaker. She’s taking out a contact of a contact whose lips are too loose. You have the duration of the mission to finish up your snooping.”

-

The drive to the hotel safe room, goes relatively smooth compared to other road trips Jesee’s taken with Widowmaker. For one, she doesn’t have the muzzle of her rifle pressed to his side, and she’s not picking over every loud aspect of his appearance. She could probably write a novel with the amount of ways she determined his state of dress would draw attention and ergo, his death.

But the trip isn’t perfect.

He cruises through radio stations, giving a cheeky smile when Widowmaker rolls her eyes at him for wanting music. She says nothing, this isn’t the mission, so there’s nothing to compromise. He flips through station after station until he finds one that isn’t filled with static.

It’s an oldies station, and he doesn’t mean oldies as in twenty years ago, it’s a station playing oldies from before the turn of the century. The sound is scratchy, records to disks to files to hard-light data have worn down the quality, but the music is soothing all the same.

A classic plays, The Chordettes’ lovely voices float through the speakers. Mr. Sandman, the words entirely familiar, if not because it’s an iconic song, then because Jesse often hears the boss playing it when he’s working with new projects.

Boss likes to take the big ones into his own hands, leave his own impression on them so that the agents are entirely loyal to him - much like Widowmaker.

He glances at said woman, finds her staring ahead with a glassy look in her eyes. He can’t fumble to turn off the music fast enough, and as she fades back into the real world, she looks worn down.

She turns to look at him, a pained smile pulling at her lips. “I despise that song.” She remarks, forcing her gaze ahead once more. “They are pitchy.”

The rest of the drive was in silence.

The hotel was not much noisier.

Jesse helps her set up shop against the window, from there she can see the room where the target is supposedly staying. She will lay in wait until the man steps into her web and then they will disappear without a trace. If anyone looks into the occupants of this room, they’d find Mr. and Mrs. Bradenburg, renewing their vows with a getaway weekend.

She positions her body precisely, able to turn and fire at the door at a moment’s notice should their cover be blown, with only Jesse at her back. The muzzle of her rifle barely peeks from the curtains, barely moves them, unseen from the outside.

He’s often in awe of her skills. There’s only a sliver of the drapes parted, only about two inches up from where her rifle pokes through before it closes again. In such a small space, he knows she can see everything she needs to of the target’s room and balcony. A perfect shot.

The babysitting begins, and she shoots him a dirty look when he lights up a cigar. He chuckles, leans back in the chair, shrugs. “Yer occupyin’ the only window, darlin’, or I’d offer to crack one open.”

Her stare is as sharp as her heels and Jesse has to fight to hold her gaze. “I am not your ‘darling'." And she goes back to waiting for prey to snare in her web.

The first day passes in silence. Jesse smokes cigar after cigar, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the rabbit skull as he enjoys the nothingness in the room. It’s a different kind of empty from the cabin, where he was plagued by uncertainties; here, he’s got a mission, a goal. Watch Widowmaker and make sure the whole operation goes without a hitch.

The first night, however, is not pleasant. Jesse wakes from an amalgamation of his worst fears - his Ma dying in his arms, a tornado sweeping through their home and wiping her away, burying him alive beneath the rubble where he dies, alone and afraid - and no thunderstorm or dragons come to save him. The nightmare leaves him shaking so bad that he has trouble lighting his half-smoked cigar.

His hands tremble and even the routine with his lighter - open, on, off, shut - does little to soothe him.

Jesse digs his fingers into his hair, tugging, trying to forget what he’s seen, and after what feels like hours, but must only be minutes, the rising tide of panic ebbs away and leaves him empty. A hollow feeling in his gut that food can’t satisfy, a hunger for something he can’t describe because he knows there is nothing in the world that will sate it.

Awake. He’s well awake and knows there’s no getting back to sleep, so he roots in his bag, pulling out a gameboy. It’s one of the more archaic models, re-released for it’s 50th anniversary, but it’s the only one he could find that would still let him play his favorite version, Ruby - the original. It’s a childish toy, an indulgence for a distraction from all of the carnage that surrounds him on a daily basis.

The cheery bit-tunes push away the agonizing screams of victims and drowns out the wailing of angels.

He starts a new game and zeroes in on the screen, ignoring all else around him. He hardly even realizes when Widowmaker gets up from the bed and returns to her post.

Jesse is only made aware of her position when she flicks a bullet at him, beaning him in the dead center of his forehead. She has impeccable aim, even without a gun.

He grunts, huffing and saving before crawling out of the bed. He washes his face quickly, swishes hotel mouthwash in lieu of brushing his teeth, and settles back into his chair. He smokes again, slower, or perhaps the day seems to drag on, because he’s sure he’s been keeping watch for hours when he decides to take a break and indulge once more.

The cowboy pulls out the handheld game system and starts his game back up, lowering the volume when Widowmaker clicks her tongue and glares at him over her shoulder.

He catches a Dratini, stares hard as he debates the answer to the prompt of a nickname. He’s already named a few of his after old friends from Deadlock and Overwatch, stored them away in a box. As much as he wants to keep them, just like in real life, he can’t.

Same goes for the Dratini. He quickly thumbs in the name, _Hanzo_ , and drops it off at the nearest box he can. With it, he drops the lingering hope that the man might still appear in his dreams and chase away the nightmares.

The sun falls and the moon rises before he’s pulled away from the screen again. Widowmaker pushes his arm off the chair to sit on it, leaning into him to gaze at the screen as well. He tries his best to ignore her, but it’s tough when the end of her hair tickles his nose- a far cry from the lash he’d received around a week ago from her.

“Your team is weak.” She says curtly.

Jesse looks up at her, eyebrows drawing together. “‘Course, I only got the one.”

She laughs softly, short and cut off abruptly but the sound rings in his ears like small holiday bells. “Then you are more of a fool than I took you for, McCree.”

“Hey now,” he drawls, going to shove her from the chair, but she moves before he can touch her. “Give me ‘til tomorrow and I’ll have a helluva team. Better ‘n anythin’ you could pull out.” He taunts. It’s a game he knows he can win; she doesn’t play. He just needs variety and high levels to convince her that his team can conquer anything.

“We shall see.”

She goes to bed, and Jesse keeps at his game until he falls asleep on the chair, low bit-tunes turning his nightmare into a digital hellscape where he’s alone and surrounded by birds of prey. Talons at the ready to eviscerate him and leave him for the scavengers.

He wakes up gasping and he cries. The tears fall from his eyes, sliding down his scruffy cheeks but he doesn’t make a noise. He can’t let Widowmaker see his weakness, for she’ll surely report back to Talon all about his game and all about the way he’s breaking. She’s their pawn, he’s just making sure she stays that way.

When his tears dry, he lays there, awake but resting until the sun peeks over the horizon- the light comes late, thick clouds hovering low and blocking out the rays. A storm is threatening to approach and Jesse welcomes the soft rumbles of thunder and whips of lightning; comforting so long as it doesn’t bring down his house.

He goes through his routine again and settles right back into his chair with his game when he’s done. Jesse doesn’t even pretend to do his job, he’s got a mission, a goal. A better team, one he can bluff about being strong.

He catches a few more pokemon, manages to fish up a Dratini just as the first crack of thunder rings out outside and without hesitation, names it _Hanzo_ . It feels fitting to fight alongside his Grovyle, a green powerhouse he named _Genji_. Jesse smiles at the screen in satisfaction and dives into his box to see what else he has to fill out his team.

There, he finds…. Hanzo.

Two, he has two of them now. Reason tells him that he only needs one on his team, that having two Dratinis is redundant, but he slips the second one into his party anyways. Two Dratinis ready to fight for him, to wipe away any would-be digital enemies.

He quickly selects a fourth pokemon, and then goes about leveling, grinding out experience in the tall grass. Time flies and once again, he doesn’t even notice Widowmaker is awake until she makes herself known to him by force.

This time, she fakes snapping the top of his gameboy down, making him bark out a warning and shoot a glare at her. She smirks knowingly and wiggles her fingers at him.

Jesse watches her carefully as she takes apart her rifle and stores it in a bag before pulling his bag to her and digging into it. “Hey!” He gruffs, moving to get up when she holds a hand up to still his actions. “Get outta my shit.”

She glances at him and unzips an inside pocket, meant for wallets and travel credentials… if the luggage was used for people of legal means. He watches in fascination as she pulls out a gameboy, matching to his own - although its color is blue instead of red - and turns it on.

Widowmaker saunters over to him, stares him down and then kicks his legs apart. She settles herself between them without so much as a questioning expression, taking what she wants.

“What are you doing?”

“We are alone, are we not?”

He’s speechless. Jesse isn’t sure how she managed to keep her system hidden, can’t imagine why she would have it in the first place. He can’t even wrap his mind around the fact that she is willingly in his lap, close to him, without threatening him or under an assumed identity as his squeeze. A total display of trust that he, and he alone, is the one person who will not rat her out for a crack in her mask.

The cowboy continues on, his elbows on the arms of the chair and his gameboy held aloft so that he doesn’t cause unwanted contact for her. After a while, gravity gets to him and he slowly finds his hands lowering. When the backs of his knuckles make contact with Widowmaker’s cool skin, he sucks in a breath, ready for the gun to point at his head.

Instead, she starts humming to herself, quiet as can be, but in the stillness of the room, her voice is louder than he’s ever heard it. Words break into the song, projecting into the space around them as they both work on their teams.

_I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream._

Her tune draws him in like a siren’s song, until he leans on her more. She presses back, almost like she’s relishing the contact, and he can almost imagine that the skin under his knuckles is slowly warming from his touch.

 _I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam_.

Jesse can feel the way her words flow through her, pushed from her stomach, coming out throaty and low. It’s not as enticing as it is entrancing, lulling him into security - he hopes it does the same for her. A catharsis for the sniper, a freedom from the monotone life she is forced to live.

_And I know it’s true, that visions are seldom what they seem._

He stares at the two Dratini’s in his party, purses his lips before they crack into a sad smile. For two nights in a row, he’s been drowned in nightmares without Hanzo visiting him, gone just as he is in the real world. He thinks of the dragon tattoo, seen before it was truly seen.

_But if I know you, I know what you’ll do._

Jesse thinks of the rippling scales, the way the bright blue cascaded down the serpent, the way it flashed across his cheekbones. A pretty face that had no right belonging to a man doomed to die- a foolish man who could escape but chose not to because he was waiting on McCree, who is equally as foolish.

_You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream._

There’s no telling when he grew so attached to the man in the cage, when he came to care for what happened to him. Jesse can’t pinpoint when he stopped separating the dreams from real life, getting swept up in the feeling of being cared for. He wonders if they were ever really dreams at all, or perhaps he never stopped dreaming.

_But if I know you, I know what you’ll do._

He tries to focus on his grinding, on getting his team to top form, but Widowmaker’s sweet words draw his thoughts out. His heart twists because he knows this is a nail in her coffin, a definite sign that her conditioning is slowly eroding.

_You’ll love me at once, the way you did once_

Widowmaker hums and sways; Jesse doesn’t know if he can turn her in, if he can stand there and tell the boss that his perfect project is failing. She pulls his arms around her, leaning back into his chest and making him look over her shoulder to play his own game. He doesn’t think he can stand to make her listen to Mr. Sandman again.

_Upon a dream._

Two people trapped by Talon, only he remembers what it’s like to be free and she doesn’t. He wonders if that’s really any better, because he’s able to regret joining them after he left Overwatch, while she doesn’t have that choice.

Widowmaker wordlessly takes his system from his hands. She plays them both and gets them set up to battle each other, chuckling when she takes a peek at his team and sees the two Dratinis with the same name.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, lets her maneuver his gameboy back into his hands and they set off to the battle.

Jesse’s heart stutters at her first pokemon, a Mightyena, strong and high leveled, as if it were the only thing she focused on, nicknamed _Gérard._ She looks over her shoulder at him, regards him quietly and then asks “Are you going to tell the sandman?” so quietly, a whisper.

“No, never.” He replies instantly because if she’s found something like this to take comfort in, he’s going to let her keep it. Jesse will help her keep it if kills him because she deserves something in this life.

She plows her way through three of his pokemon, Genji and both Hanzo’s out of commission. He regrets picking his fourth pokemon when he hears her suck in a breath between her teeth and go rigid in his arms. A Mawile, equal level to her Gérard, only Jesse decided to name it _Amélie_.

Jesse knew her back in Overwatch, used to see her on base, arm in arm with Gérard. She looked prim and proper, the total opposite of himself, rough and ragged, but despite how petty everyone felt her to be, there had never been anything other than adoration in the way Gérard looked at her. He remembers hearing Mercy sighing once with a comment ‘I would kill to have someone look at me like that,’ - ironic given her life-saving occupation.

Widowmaker tries her best to take down Amélie, but just when she’s about to do it, Jesse lands a critical hit and Gérard falls. He thinks for sure this time she will threaten him, possibly actually kill him because the scenario is too similar to true events.

She marches on, a project with her feelings repressed, even now she’s not allowed to grieve for her husband.

He laughs when she pulls out a Duskull, _Reaper_ , and can’t be mad when it delivers the final blow. He sets his system down and pulls her closer into a hug because he needs one and while she’s allowing him to touch her, he’ll give her the one that he thinks she deserves.

“I have one named after you, McCree. I will trade you for that delightful Mawile.” She loops her arms up, hands grabbing at his forearms, the closest thing she will do to hugging him back.

He nods, drops his face so that his forehead rests on her shoulder. “Sure thing. Hope I ain’t a Muk.”

“Worse.” She picks up his system and goes about her own business again, setting it up, trading the pokemon. Widowmaker holds it over her shoulder, “Here.”

He looks up and sees a rather happy looking cactus, a Cacnea, with the ever so charming name of _Oaf_. He frowns and huffs. “Why the fuck am I a goddamn cactus?”

She reaches back, fingers brushing through his beard. “Because you are prickly.”

A beat. “Fair enough.”

When they sleep, she faces him, twines her arms with his and while he has nightmares still, he doesn’t get up. He stays put because Widowmaker looks at peace and tomorrow when they leave in the morning, he’s willing to bet it’ll be ages before she feels it again.

-

They return to base, they explain away their failure with a simple ‘the target never showed’. It’s believable enough, they are firm in their belief that Widowmaker is the perfect assassin with no cracks in her armor, that she would have waited at that window all three days, but Jesse knows the truth. He knows that the two little gameboys tucked away in his bag hold her world.

A grunt catches him when he gets to his room, tugging at his sleeve and when Jesse glares at him something fierce, thinks twice and lets go.

“Boss wanted to see you in The Pen.” He reports and then scurries away, not brain-dead enough to stick around and face the wrath of McCree. Although, little do they know he’s not in a particularly harsh mood these days, trying to recover his image so that he can stay afloat.

He drops his bag off, dumps his holster and his chest armor, and heads to The Pen.

Despite what horror movies would lead one to believe about underground medical facilities, The Pen is pristine. Conditions are kept clean and sterile to insure the longevity of experimental patients and to prevent distractions to those in the process of reconditioning. Bright lights and stark white walls create a labyrinth of cells. Arguably, a horror in itself.

Many of them are empty, but of those that are filled, roughly eighty percent will never see the light of day again. The other twenty percent will see it through a brainwashed haze.

Jesse hears whistling before he notices the actual song over the speaker system.

_Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream_

Boss throws open the doors to the examination bay, a grin on his face that chills Jesse to the bone. He's happy about someone's progress. If there were any doubts, right then and there, Jesse knows for certain he'll do anything to prevent Widowmaker from having to go through Boss' brand of reconditioning again.

_Make him the cutest that I've ever seen_

He watches Boss wipe a smear of blood off his face, "Might want to go make sure cell 013D is conscious. Things got a bit rowdy in our first session."

_Give him two lips, like roses and clover_

Jesse nods and Boss chuckles as they cross paths in the hall, shoulders brushing. "It'll be real nice having such a _pretty_ thing under my thumb." The man murmurs to himself and the words sow a cold seed of dread in Jesse's gut.

_Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over_

He shakes the feeling and heads to 013D, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. The lights flicker and the song warbles, slowing into a horrible tempo and pitch that makes Jesse feel as though he's in a thriller film.

_Sandman, I'm so alone_

Thunder booms and there are screams - no, roars. Two visceral sounds like wounded animals. Jesse can hear thrashing, struggling of some sort, but it ceases when he rounds the corner. Stills, just like Jesse does when he sees the Boss' newest project.

_Don’t have nobody to call my own_

It's Hanzo, naked, face and body painted with the beginnings of dark bruises. Some strange coloration, not wounds, cover a good portion of the man's body - legs, left side - though he curls up to try and conceal the patches. Scales, Jesse realizes, just like the ones along his tattoo.

_Please turn on your magic beam_

Hanzo drags his eyes up Jesse's form, the flicker of relief in his eyes accompanied with a soft boom of thunder. "Jesse," he whispers, a blue glow rippling across the patches of scales.

_Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream_

The words are a sharp gust, knocking the wind from Jesse’s chest as he stares because of all the things he’d seen in his years - cyborgs, super soldiers, angels - an actual dragon was never something he’d expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may be your fault, but thanks as always to Akirata, whose soul I torture endlessly while writing.
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	5. Supernova

Jesse is supposed to be keeping watch over the video feeds, his responsibility ever since that evening he strangled the Tuesday grunt. To be entirely fair, sneaking up on Agent McCree was a sure fire way to land one’s self in the infirmary with _something_ broken, and Jesse hadn’t been too keen on playing nice that day after his informant was found dead.

He’s supposed to keep watch over the entrances and exits of certain facilities, but he keeps changing the feed back to The Pens.

There’s no direct shot of Hanzo’s cell, but he can see down the corridor, can see the press of a bare back against the glass.

It’s been three days since the _delightful_ discovery of the man’s fate - doomed to be reconditioned into a powerful weapon, a tool for Talon to utilize against the world. Everyone would bow before a dragon, if only they could break him.

Jesse lets himself be comforted by the knowledge that Hanzo has fought everything thus far, putting the boss in a sour mood. His heart raced early in the morning when they dragged him out of the cell, bound and screaming, his voice so hoarse that it sounded like roaring over the feed.

Hanzo is refusing to bend, even when he’s black and blue in the face and tossed back in his cage for a lunch break, he roars something fierce that only hints at the power within.

An electric blue flash every so often allows Jesse to know that he’s alive, reminds him of the scales that mottle his body. A dragon- if not an actual beast, then an echo of one for sure.

Jesse keeps a steady pace, five minutes watching over Hanzo’s cell and then five minutes jumping around to find where his stuff might be hidden and to scan the garage bay. He counts seconds to himself, takes mental notes, maps layouts in his head.

The camera in the southeast corner of the garage takes a total of twenty seconds to make a full back and forth sweep, left to right. The camera in the southwest corner takes thirty.

Jesse leans back in his chair, staring at the vehicles lined up, trying to figure out which one has the least time in the cameras’ gaze, and playing soft spoken words over and over in his mind. They were meant to be comforting, a dream chasing away his nightmare, but instead they are a veiled threat.

‘ _You must make the choice, Jesse._ ’

Two nights ago, in the throes of a terror, arcs of lightning lit up the pitch black. The illumination chased away the demons baying at the fringes of the darkness, but it did little to repel the serpents.

Two large dragons, like the one crawling up Hanzo’s arm, circled him. Round and round, tail to tip, claws leaving deep furrows in the ground that glowed with the same blue that crackled like lightning over their bodies. Gold manes shimmered, swaying and alluring, and there was little doubt of how plush the locks would feel between his fingers.

They paused, long whiskers twitching and when Jesse finally let out the breath he’d been holding, they swarmed. They coiled around him, tight like a snake, powerful muscles tensing under scaled hides. Their heads arced toward him and he could feel their chuffs of breath, warm against his face.

“You must make a choice, Jesse.” They spoke in tandem, winding tighter until he gasped and struggled.

“What choice?” He gritted out.

They relaxed enough for him to breath in deeply. “Will you fall or fly?” One said, drawing his attention. “Will you succumb or survive?” The other spoke.

The serpents, dragons, beasts of myths, leaned in closer to nose at his neck, under his beard.

“Will you remain or run?” They asked together again, tucking in closer still, their warmth engulfing him, drowning him down into a relaxed state. Jesse’s mind was fuzzy, but he couldn’t tell if it  was from dreaming or from the lack of oxygen. “I am waiting for you. I have _always_ expected you.” They sank their claws into his sides, holding onto him. Jesse cried out, tried to get free once more. “You must make the choice, Jesse. I cannot make it for you--”

Jesse is pulled out of his thoughts when strong hands land on his shoulders, their grip harsh and demanding. He’s silently thankful he zoned out while the camera was on the garage bay and not in The Pens.

“Mr. McCree,” It’s Boss and the cowboy’s blood runs cold. “I have a task for you.”

He swallows his fear and flips the camera to the cafeteria, as if he were in the middle of a routine that the boss had interrupted. “Sure thing, Boss. What’d ya need?”

“Genji Shimada,”

Dread settles heavy in his stomach. “What about ‘im?”

He can feel the boss’ slimey grin against the back of his neck. “How likely is he to rescue his brother?”

“Pretty likely,” He answers honest, unwilling to risk getting caught in a lie by a man with his hands figuratively and literally near his throat. A man who is good at reading people. “Last I heard, he’s been tryin’ to track ‘im down.” He doesn’t mention that the intel also said it was to offer forgiveness.

“Good, good,” And the hands are gone.

Jesse turns to see Boss at the door, about to leave, and his mouth jumps the gun. “What kinda plan ya got? If’n I’m allowed to know.” He doesn’t want to know, but he needs to. What sort of wrench will this throw in his own plans?

Boss smiles, sharp edges like knives in the set of his lips. “I know you’ve been having trouble coming up with a method to detain him… if he’s anything like his brother, I have no doubt that I will find a way. And the elder Shimada will provide the perfect bait for him when we are ready.” He leaves, no second chances to pry.

That’s okay because Jesse’s stomach flips and he grabs the trash can near the wide desk and retches. He doesn’t want to know what they’re doing to Hanzo. He doesn’t want to know what they’ll do to Genji if Jesse is unsuccessful in getting out. He’s seen horrific shit happen in The Pen, and he hopes that Hanzo isn’t about to become one of the extremes.

He flicks the camera over to The Pen and watches as the examiners return from lunch and drag him out of his cell. Hanzo roars, tosses one of them against the wall in his anger, but there are more of them and one of him, and when they finally wrest control from him, those bright, furious blue eyes glare up into the camera.

They know Jesse’s watching.

-

Never let it be said that the bounty on Jesse McCree’s head was for lack of intelligence.

Sure, he never got a formal education in his youth, striking out into the Deadlock Rebels at the tender age of thirteen, but what he lacked in book smarts, he made up for in wit.

It takes a special brand of clever to dodge the law. It takes a special kind of brains to do it for so long that the number just keeps rising and rising. It takes a marvelous amount of intelligence to know exactly when to get the hell out of dodge.

The grunts say nothing to Jesse as he smokes in the garage bay, leaning against a large truck. His hand rests on Warbringer at his hip, tightening when any of them so much as think of looking in his direction, the threat clear. This is another one of those days that Agent McCree isn’t to be fucked with.

He allows the smoke from his cigar to billow from his lips, collecting under the brim of his hat and hiding his watchful eyes from the cameras. He counts in his head, remembers what the screens look like in the feed room, and gets a feel for how much time he actually has where the cameras can’t see him.

A cigar and a half later, he makes his move.

When the cameras swivel away, he quickly turns around and thumbs the code to unlock the door into the keypad panel. Jesse hears a hiss and returns to his previous position just as the cameras gaze at him once more.

Slowly, with each blind spot in the feed, he moves forward. Keys come to rest ever so lightly in the ignition, a large weight stands ready to be tipped onto the gas pedal, and the ID of a scapegoat grunt is tossed in the seat.

Jesse swallows the lump in his throat, lets three gaps pass by as he thinks about what he’s about to set in motion.

If he’s caught, he’s as good as dead, and if he succeeds, he must put his future in the hands of an enigmatic man; hedge his bets on a promised sanctuary. Is it worth it? Is freeing Hanzo worth being relentlessly hunted? Probably not, but he stays, he will crack and Talon will swoop in like a carrion bird and tear at his insides until he’s a shell of a man. Hollow inside.

This is his only chance and he’s bet a whole lot more on ones smaller.

As soon as it’s clear, Jesse springs into action. He turns the key, throws it in drive, and tips the weight over.

The crash is loud like a gunshot, but it’s a boom instead of a crack, rubble falling as the engine still revs and the whole building shudders. Grunts panic and armed agents swarm the site, scrambling to turn off the vehicle.

The boss appears, furious, and that’s when Jesse takes his leave. He slips through a side door in the garage bay where the camera’s can’t see him.

He’s giddy, buzzing with the adrenaline that comes from missions that have purpose. He hasn’t felt this good in a long time, his face is split into the kind of grin that he hasn’t had in ages, the muscles of his cheeks burning from the smile. His pace is swift as he saunters to The Pens, but not so fast as to draw attention.

Jesse heads to storage first, crushing the lock on the case containing the belongings of cell 013D. The whine and snap of metal in his grip sobers him some, reminds him that he still has a ways to go. He wrenches the case open and furrows his brows at the contents.

Two items: a full quiver and a bow.

He may be a gun kinda man, but the fine craftsmanship of the weapon and its ammunition is not lost on him. He grabs the quiver by the strap, slinging it across his body, and slings the bow over his shoulder. He winces and reminds himself to apologize for his mistreatment of the weapon, clearly beloved in its impeccable condition, once they’ve made their escape.

Jesse jogs now, can hear the chatter of demands to find out who is responsible for the truck fiasco in his comm.

His heart pounds fiercely in his ears, speeding up as he gets closer to 013D. Jesse sees a pulse of blue illuminate the walls and floor from around the corner and the giddy rush of adrenaline comes back. He’s doing this, something good- attempting to save a life instead of ending one.

Hanzo stands at the glass barrier, palms pressed flush against the surface. He balls his hands into fists as he sees Jesse, two clawed fingers on his right hand scratching against the glass. “Jesse,” he says breathlessly and rubs his cheek against the glass.

The sharpshooter doesn’t have time to acknowledge the strange behavior, and doesn’t let himself get caught in the longing stare of elective blue. He presses his hands against the barrier as well, but for entirely different reasons. He pushes hard, testing the give and taking note of how the glass is sealed at the ceiling and walls.

“I need ya to back up.” He says, rubbing his shoulder and rotating his cybernetic arm, warming up.

“What is going on?”

Jesse snarls. “I said back up, damnit.” He meets Hanzo’s disgruntled glare with a forceful frown until the captive man concedes and backs up to the far wall. His eyes never leave Jesse, and some part of the gunslinger laughs in fondness at the shorter man’s furrowed brow.

Jesse winds back his fist, metal plating sliding open. Pressure builds until there’s a loud _pop_ and his arm flies forward, fist connecting and shattering the glass. He stands straight, triumphant and grinning in his achievement. He has time to flex the metal digits once, twice before he’s being accosted and his space is invaded

Hanzo drags him into a kiss, hands knocking the cowboy’s hat off as they fist into thick locks and he steals Jesse’s breath. It’s quick but earth-shattering, a faultline slipping and causing tremors. When they part, smoke streams lazily from between the naked man’s lips and he stares at Jesse in serious contemplation.

“How much do you trust me?”

“It ain’t much.”

The man squints and tilts his head. “Clarify.”

“More than Talon, less than I can throw ya.”

Hanzo looks down at his prosthetic arm and then to the shattered glass littering the floor. He opens his mouth to say something, but pauses, breathes out more smoke and hums in thought.

Jesse glances nervously around them, he’s waiting for the final countdown of the escape. He’s willing to bet that within the next ten minutes someone will notice what’s happening on the feed, or the base system will scan and find Hanzo’s biosignature out of place. The alarm will sound and lockdown will go into effect.

Hanzo invades his space once again and slips behind him. “Jesse,” He murmurs, sultry. His hands come up to Jesse’s neck and shoulders, finger tips pressing against his shirt and skin. The feeling evaporates and suddenly something is _slithering_ across his shoulders. “Jesse,” He repeats in stereo. Same voice, two sources. “I need you to not freak out.”

The cowboy stills, chews at his cheek. “Hard not to,” He replies and shuts his eyes to deal with it. “Don’t much like the thought of gettin’ cozy with a snake-” He pauses when something slithers the opposite direction on his shoulders. “Snakes.”

Sharp pinpricks of pain blossom under his shirt and he gasps. His eyes fly open and he looks to one of his shoulders- electric blue fills his sight. A mini version of the dragons in his dream is staring at him, intently, studying him.

A lesser man would have screamed, but the connection is so easy. A dragon-like man with dragon pets. So he stares back, willing the small creature to back down but he’s not its owner and it curls its upper lips to reveal small sharp teeth, defying him.

He reaches up to push it away, knowing an animal is likely to take a snap at anything getting up in its face, and the motion unsettles the other one.

The one he’d nearly forgotten about lets out a cry and slips off his shoulder, suddenly digging its claws into his shoulder to prevent it from falling to the ground.

Jesse winces and jolts, jostling a small unhappy chirp from the one still perched on him. The one slipping lets out a pleading series of chitters, claws sinking in further. The cowboy twists awkwardly, putting his hand at the small of his back with his palm upward.

“I gotcha,” He urges, receiving nervous chirps in response. “C’mon now.”

The steady dragon watches raptly as its twin releases its hold on Jesse’s back and plummets into his waiting hand.

He’s surprised at how small and flexible it is, its head able to fit in his fist and its body only slightly longer than his forearm. It wraps its tail around his wrist to steady itself as he lifts the serpent up in front of him. It writhes and coils until it pulls the entirety of its body into a pile in his hand, it uses its own mass to perch itself up and it belts out the smallest of roars at him- happy.

The other is quick to cross Jesse’s shoulders and travel halfway down his arm, soft clicks communicating to its twin.

The gunslinger reaches up, scratches under the chin of the one in his hand to which it preens and purrs loudly. “There ya go.” He murmurs, holding his finger out and watching with a warm delight as the serpent rubs its face all over the digit. “Yer alright lil’ fella.”

“Thank you,”

He jumps, nearly flings the two dragons to the floor when he hears Hanzo’s voice come from their mouths. It’s weird, and not the kind of weird that he can ignore like Hanzo rubbing his face against the glass. No, he’s forced to acknowledge the way they speak in tandem with the captive man’s voice, a sound like thunder rolling over the open plains.

“We should get moving.” They urge, reminding him of the plan and the one on his shoulder scurries to his chestplate.

Jesse lets out a yelp of surprise when it crawls its way underneath his shirt, settling against his chest with his armor protecting it from the outside world. Its twin is quick to join, giving a chirp of satisfaction before disappearing inside.

He can feel them writhe against each other, finding a comfortable place to be and settling.

It’s insane, absolutely insane. Undeniable proof that he’s lost it.

“Hanzo?” He turns around, looking for the small serpents’ master, but finds the hallway empty save for him and his new companions.

Small claws scratch at his chest, vying for his attention. “I am here. Hurry, we do not have much time.” The dragons speak and he can feel their deep voices against his skin.

Confusion rises, swarms in his head and threatens to burst until it’s abruptly quelled by the blaring of an alarm. They’ve been noticed.

Jesse wastes little time, making sure the bow is secure over his shoulder and breaking into a run. His stride is aided by the prosthetic knee, whirring in its socket and pushing him father when his left leg propels him forward. If he gets caught, he knows Talon won’t hesitate to take back the technology they’ve given him in aid. They’ll make sure he can’t ever run again.

The planned route is clear, the door to outside the base stands before him and he smiles to himself because he knows the little black car is waiting on the other side. Checked out to one of Reaper’s missions, but never checked back in. Freedom is close, a breath away from escape.

But when the door swings open, seven guns are pointed at his face and his comm crackles in his ear.

“ _Give up quietly Mr. McCree and perhaps we will see about letting you keep this cowboy persona you have._ ” The boss’ voice causes sweat to bead at his brow, the situation spinning suddenly. He’s a fool, all dumb luck and outside help have kept him out of the law’s hands but they will not help him now. “ _If you fight,_ ” A chuckle, unnerving and Jesse swears he hears Mr. Sandman playing in the background. “ _I will break you._ ”

Months later he’ll look back at this moment and realize that it was far easier to get to his gun than he anticipated. Years later he’ll realize that while he was busy trying to figure a way out alive, the dragons against his chest sparked with lightning, writhing and generating static.

But in the moment, the scant seconds he had to use unless he wanted to disappear forever, his gun was out of his reach. However, the bow on his shoulder was available and the arrows were easy ammunition to load.

Jesse isn’t proficient with a bow by a long shot, but lazy summer afternoons in his childhood, dodging his mother’s husband have left their mark.

Down by the creek, he’d wander and imagine what life would be with his father’s tribe on the reservation. Would they accept him, as mixed as he was? What sort of skills would they teach him? He wanted to learn their language, to experience because under the oppressive thumb of his mother’s husband, he’s not allowed to connect- the man severs any roots he tries to put down.

He knows now, as an adult, that his upbringing outside his father’s culture was washed out and painted white like a picket fence. Then, as a young boy just ten, he was certain that everything he saw in his old western films was true. Feathers and bows and moccasins.

Down by the creek, he’d laugh and play at a life he imagined for himself. A bow fashioned out of a branch and a piece of fishing line, he’d pretend he was riding on horseback and hunting. He would look at photos and videos in the dead of night when his mother’s husband couldn’t catch him and he’d make sure he was holding everything right.

Then, he was a child who watched one too many westerns side by side with his mother and as he grew his eyes fell more towards the cowboys than the ‘Indians’. Heroes working outside the law, sometimes earning a bad name, to help others.

He remembers his Ma’s words clearly one night: ‘ _If you grew up to be just like them cowboys, I’d be awfully proud of ya._ ’ She meant personality and chivalry, but Jesse was never one to do things half-assed.

Jesse still sees the videos in his mind’s eye, the posture, the draw. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t need to be, not with what he’s doing.

He pulls the string taut, nocked with three arrows, one between each finger, and breathes deep.

It starts in the center of his chest, a blooming warmth that spreads out all over his body, eases his muscles and slows everything around him. It pushes to the tips of his toes and the ends of his finger tips before it all sucks back to his core.

It ignites him, with a crack everything is unbearably hot and he burns like the sun. He’s vaguely aware of the serpents against his chest wriggling uncomfortably, but if he breaks concentration now, they are doomed.

An orange and red haze pushes at the edges of his vision, surrounds his physical body, spreading steadily outward. He is a star going supernova, and when he explodes into the space surrounding him, he releases the string and the arrows fly.

He doesn’t need to look, can’t look, to know that three of the armed agents fall dead with arrows between their eyes. He drops to his knees in pain, cybernetic hand flying up to press the cool metal against his eye- it burns, but nothing will wash out the sting. Jesse gasps for air, feels the serpents rise up out of his chest armor and hiss threateningly at the remaining guns.

They coil around the back of his neck, one climbs his head and perches on his hat. Jesse’s sure it’d be adorable if he wasn’t melting from the inside out, if he didn’t feel like trying to claw his eye out.

The Deadeye leaves him shaking and sweaty, he can feel his face swelling, the skin around his eye inflamed from the heat and trauma. The other dragon presses its nose against an exposed, reddening patch of skin and the sensation is cool- a swift breeze in a fall storm.

The remaining four agents hike their guns up, metal and composite parts clacking together. It’s over, he couldn’t stay standing long enough to scare the survivors off. ‘ _You put the fear of the devil in them,_ ’ his Ma told him once, patching him up after fighting with bullies, long before he figured out he could use Deadeye. ‘ _Got that hellfire in your eyes._ ’ How right she’d been.

He clenches his other eye shut, grabs at the dragon near his face and tucks the creature close. Maybe it’ll survive the gunfire that’s sure to come.

Weak and vulnerable; it shakes him but he can’t fall any further than the solid ground beneath his knees.

The gunshots blossom in the air, but it’s not a spray, it’s four quick cracks. Whips snapping above his head and followed swiftly four bodies dropping.

His head swims, but the voice in ear is clear as day. A sweet bell ringing. “I never miss, Oaf.” The name is affectionate, a secret, a codeword. Widowmaker is risking herself to see him set free.

The dragons crawl off of him, scurry behind him and Jesse presses the link on his comm. “I’ll come back for you.” He promises, because he can’t leave her behind, but he can’t take her with him. Not right now.

“Even a cactus needs some water. Adieu, mon chér.”

There’s another shot, he expects his own death. She doesn’t miss. He feels it breeze past his neck and he gasps, reaching up to staunch the blood he’s sure will be flowing, but all he feels is the frayed wire of the commlink from his ear.

He tears it out, arms heavy, vision obscured at the edges with grasping shadows. He grinds it into the dirt, falls to the side with the effort. He’s so tired and sore. “I’m not yer darlin’.” He murmurs weakly.

“Jesse,” Hands paw at his shoulders, urge him to sit up. When he refuses, arms scoop under him and lift, cradling him against a solid chest. Safety, he remembers, against the solid surface. Sanctuary within those arms. “Keys.” A stern voice demands, hoisting him into the backseat of the car before digging into his pockets.

Time picks up, returning to a normal pace. Deadeye makes him a singularity in spacetime; he exists in his own moments, shared only by the the force of gravity that pulls him into a freefall. He’s heavy, in mind and body, and it weighs him down into a light sleep before the car ever starts.

-

“Jesse,”

The cowboy groans, cracks open his good eye and finds that the sun has set. Likely it left the sky long ago, if the dark navy hue is anything to go by. Cloudless, which does little to comfort him, and empty.

Hands slide down from the top of his head and into the scruffy bits of his beard at his cheeks. He tilts his head back and finds Hanzo staring at him. “I secured a room for us. Come.”

Jesse bolts up in panic, followed immediately by the swimming feeling of regret. He feels sick, his mouth is full of cotton and he finds it hard to ask the questions that suddenly swarm. Where are they? How far away did they get? Wasn’t Hanzo naked?

The last question is answered promptly when his vision focuses. The man is standing unconcerned about his state of dress, with only Jesse’s black serape wrapped around his waist in a pool towel fashion statement. The dim light from the inside of the car is not enough to give him a proper look at all of Hanzo, but he can see a soft glow of scales in the darkness.

“The owner is blind, she cannot identify you.” He assures when Jesse takes the offered hand and uses it to help scoot his way out of the car. ‘ _She cannot see what I look like_ ’ floats between them silently.

He goes for the trunk but suddenly Hanzo is in his way, leaning on the car and staring up at him resolutely. “I have already taken everything inside.” Jesse opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by hands on his shoulders turning him around and gently urging him towards one of the many motel room doors. “Even your bag.” The one hidden under a panel in the trunk in case the car was found before he could get Hanzo out.

The outside of the motel is dark; only one of three parking lot lights work and the metal fencing looks as though it has taken one too many beatings from the front ends of cars.

The inside doesn’t fair much better; paint peeling from the walls, lights cast a muted yellow glow in the corner of the room, and the A/C rattles something awful. But it has a bed and a working shower and an owner who can’t report to the authorities that a strange mutant and a wanted man are staying in her establishment. Really, it’s better than what Jesse could have asked for in his escape.

He’d anticipated nights spent uncomfortably sleeping in the car, seats leaned back and temperature out of his control as he pulled the keys from the ignition. Make the vehicle last as long as possible and don’t draw attention to himself. He imagined they’d hop on cargo trains when they ditched the car, trying valiantly to get to the base of the Alps where Hanzo promised his safe haven was. Only, Jesse wasn’t a fool and knew they’d likely get as far as the east coast and give up, find some way to scrape cash together to rent a beat up little place and live in fear until the inevitable day when Talon tracked them down.

It was a soft, guarded secret, that when he imagined that scenario, he found comfort in thinking of lazy days holed away with Hanzo with nothing to do. And they would do nothing besides sit in quiet company, Jesse’s demons pushed away by the presence of the other man. This time, without a glass wall between them, Hanzo would help him with his house of cards- support the sides as he built it higher than ever before.

Hanzo rifles through Jesse’s bag and tugs on a shirt and some ill-fitted pants- a spot of fondness blooms in his chest at the sight.

With a fleeting smile, he slips behind Jesse wraps his arms around him, hands swooping up to holdfast onto his broad shoulders. He presses his face against the back of his neck, hums in gentle thought.

The embrace is needed, and Jesse tells him as much, his own hands coming up to grab Hanzo’s wrists and hold him there, keep him in place because they finally have time to breathe. “Thank you,” He rasps, the cotton in his mouth finally budging enough for the words to slip through.

The shorter man chuckles, tightens his hold which makes Jesse’s heart flutter because this is comfort, this is safety. This is what he has been starved for and it’s real. “I should be thanking you.”

They linger, a comfortable silence blanketing them.

Hanzo walks him slowly toward the bathroom with little nudges until they are at the threshold. “Relax, take a shower.” He encourages. “I am going to go dump the car and will return as soon as I am able.”

He leaves before Jesse can protest. The ache from Deadeye still lingers in his bones, his eye is still puffy and inflamed, the skin burns and he knows what’s about to come next.

Jesse hears their whispers slowly creep in as soon as he is alone. The ghosts don’t get in his face like the dreams do, they’re always at the same distance as they were when he killed them. The strange phenomenon of Deadeye leaves their images around him, haunting him with their dead stares, projectiles right between their eyes. Usually, it’s bullets, but these ghosts have arrows.

Their figures judge him heavily for his crimes. They mock him and make him fall to his knees, gasping because the fire is back. He burns for his sins, broiled from the inside out and sometimes the feeling is unbearable.

He wonders where Hanzo’s pets have been stashed, hopes they’ll make due for comfort and grounding but they are nowhere close.

Jesse whimpers, crawls to the tub-shower combo and climbs in. He hunkers down, tugs the curtain closed so that he can’t see them anymore. So he can’t see them lined against the wall with their guns hanging in their limp hands.

The screaming always begins when he can no longer see them. The sound rings like gunshots, wounding him, tearing through flesh and bone and leaving him sore.

He fumbles blindly for the water knobs, and jimmies the little lever on the spigot until the showerhead turns on. The drumming water against the basin helps cover the noise and reminds him of rain, keeps him from grabbing his gun and shooting them again.

He can still hear them and as the minutes tick by, he begins to sob. Eyes wide - if he closes them for longer than a blink, he’ll see them against the inside of his eyelids and their screams will get louder. He’s frightened, alone, and there’s no longer the routine of life at the Talon base to keep him from drowning.

The water is cold by the time Hanzo returns; the water is cold but Jesse still feels like he’s on fire.

There’s a thud, plastic bags dropping to the floor and the curtain is wrenched open.

Jesse flinches when he catches sight of the men lined up still, mouths open wide in their eternal scream. There’s no peace in the way he forces them out of the world. He’s damned them all to living beside him long after they’ve died.

“Jesse!”

Somewhere, somehow, he knows this isn’t the first time Hanzo has called out his name in the past minute, and when he finally looks up, he breaks. Comfort is so close, safety. He reaches out and grabs and pulls. Hanzo comes willingly, climbing under the spray, still clothed, just as he is, and kneels between his legs.

Thumbs brush under his cheekbones, the one under his right eye far more delicate than the other. A hand pushes the wet hair from his face, continues touching him in concern. “Jesse,” He whispers, thumb still brushing softly under the irritated skin around his eye. “I should not have left you.” He says. “The car could have waited.” But that’s the problem, it couldn’t. One search of the license number, and Talon would be kicking down their door.

“What can I do for you?”

He slouches against Hanzo, wrenches his hands tighter into his sleeves. “Anything.”

Hanzo nods, understanding. There isn’t a specific thing that he needs, he just needs something, anything other than the screaming that he hears. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, okay?”

“Yes.” His throat is raw, and Jesse can’t be entirely sure that while he was alone, that he wasn’t screaming right alongside the ghosts.

He lets the other man unbutton his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. He stands when prompted, stipped down until he’s in his underwear and he feels a sinking in his bones, he’s so tired, too strung out. Jesse’s thankful that Hanzo seems to hear him without anything being said.

The scaled man helps him out of the shower, rummages around for a towel and drapes it over his shoulders before heading into the motel room. Jesse’s disconnected, floating, the towel beneath his fingers doesn’t feel real as he uses it to dry his body. He sheds his underwear, wraps the towel around his waist and heads for the entrance.

Hanzo stops him, appears first with clothes folded, clean and dry from his bag. But they hold little matter.

If he thought that seeing the man in his clothes made him fond, seeing him in only one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers has him downright enamoured with the puzzle of a man. He looks casual, like he belongs in those clothes. Jesse can imagine a world where he wakes up and finds a similar sight, the smell of coffee brew permeating the air and a gentle kiss goodmorning.

To boot, Hanzo would pick his favorite, plaid blue shirt, out of the whole bunch- nevermind that it’s the only one in there that isn’t black, as per Talon standards.

“Your hair is still wet.” He says, handing the bundle to Jesse. He goes to the towels, and while he’s turned, Jesse at least pulls on dry boxers, dropping the towel to the ground. He’s not shy and he’s not embarrassed, there’s no reason to be after the display on the counter in the cabin, but he doesn’t know what they are - _if_ they are. He doesn’t want to break it by pressing either, satisfied with the sense of security, with the familiar touches and gentle words.

He bends for Hanzo when the new towel is offered, lets the shorter man dry his hair which he seems to take great satisfaction in. There’s something to be said about the way Hanzo cares for him, it makes him feel alive- present instead of a shadow in the background. The attention is slow, adoring, warming in a way that isn’t unpleasant.

Hanzo pulls the towel away, drapes it over his own wet locks and begins drying himself. There’s no helping it when Jesse takes the wheel, returns the favor. He delights in the purrs the shorter man gives, makes sure to get him as dry as possible.

The other man peeks up with a smile, grabs Jesse’s hands and brings his knuckles to his cheeks. He rubs his face against the digits, both metal and flesh alike, smiling in such a sincere manner that the gunslinger’s heart melts.

He pulls Jesse into the room, doesn’t even bother letting him get entirely dressed and ushers him into the bed, underneath the old, plush covers. He flicks the lights out and slips in beside him, presses his forehead against the cowboy’s and sighs. “I need you to not freak out,” He says, parroting words spoken earlier in the day.

“Hanzo…”

The man shifts, rolls on top of him and quickly grows lighter on top of his chest. Something _slithers_ and it hits him.

The dragons, they aren’t pets. Hanzo isn’t just dragon-like.

As the two small serpents chirp at him and tuck themselves against his collarbone with their snouts pressed under his chin, he realizes. Hanzo and the dragons are one in the same. He didn’t just free a man, he set loose dragons who have decided that he is worth their while.

If he wasn’t so tired, if he wasn’t burning up inside, if he didn’t feel so _safe_ , he’d think harder on it. He’d ask questions, try to get a good look.

But it can wait until morning.

It can wait until the ghosts stop staring.

He isn’t even sure when they stopped screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back to thanking Akirata, not only for being a wonderful beta reader, but because they listen to my wild ideas and make them infinitely worse <3
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	6. The Sound of Silence

When Jesse wakes, he takes note of three things.

One, there was no nightmare. Aside from the sour taste in his mouth, and a headache, he’s relieved. There are always nightmares after Deadeye. He experiences what his victims see, the monster reflected. A devil walking the earth.

Two, the dragons, Hanzo, are much larger than he remembers. The night before, their heads were neatly tucked beneath his chin, now it’s barely one of their snouts that fit. Jesse’s neck is twisted at an awkward angle and it’s not entirely uncomfortable, but still strange.

Three, one of the dragons is coiled against his chest, bundled in his arms. The other is in a bizarre place- its tail starts at his ankle and it wraps around his leg, up and up around his calf and thigh until it rests its head against his belly. Both of them are grasping at him gently with their claws, grounding him.

It’s a far cry from the silent mornings one sees in romance movies. The hotel walls are thin and ratty and somewhere a baby is screeching. Somewhere a couple is arguing. Somewhere a woman is crying out in ecstasy.

But here, Jesse lays in bed with serpents - dragons. Pieces of a man he hardly knows but are the only ones left for him to trust. There have been too many opportunities for the man to cross him or leave him, but instead Hanzo stays, comforts him even when the ghosts that haunt him claw and howl at the windows.

He adjusts his arms, sinks his fingers into the fur that trickles down the length of one of the dragons. Liquid gold, thick and flowing, shimmering when the fur catches the sun’s light peeking through the curtains.

Both serpents stir against him, purring at they wake. The one wrapped around his leg slithers up, claws pulling at him as it drags its body up, scales rubbing against his skin and shooting off small static shocks that make his muscles jolt and jump.

As it joins its twin in his arms, Jesse rolls onto his back so that they can attempt to fit on his chest and belly. Larger than last night and piled together, they don’t fit on him entirely, loose coils falling over his sides and arms, but it hardly seems to bother them.

They writhe and climb, taking turns pushing their heads underneath his chin and against his fingers. Like cats, almost, giving themselves attention when he fails to give them enough. Their claws poke at his chest and pull at each other as they keep a steady pace.

The motions are soothing, the constant drag of scales demands his attention and the brush of soft fur against his hand calms any rising panic leftover from the night before.

“Hanzo,” He murmurs with a hum, watching the dragons look at him, acknowledge that he is slowly coming to understand. They chirp at him, swoop in to rub their scaled cheeks against the underside of his jaw and against his neck before returning to his hand. It pulls a weary, but delighted, chuckle from him.

Their flow becomes disrupted and suddenly there’s a growl from one, and the other snaps its jaws. They twist over each other and tangle, bumping one out of the way of his hand when the other is greedy for his attention.

The best word for what comes next is a squabble- they fight, but no blood is drawn and they don’t aim to harm each other. Each serpent is vying to be dominant over the other, a competition with himself to determine who will remain beneath his hand. They scratch, claw, bite; thrashing and trying to make themselves bigger than the other.

Jesse’s seen his share of dogs display this behavior, knows not to get into the middle of it and let them settle things on their own unless they are about to harm one another. He abides by this rule until one of them slips and rakes a claw down his arm.

“Hey!” He barks out suddenly, looking down to see them staring back guiltily. They wrap both their tails around his arm, golden tufts of fur on the end brushing against the raised, red skin. “I do have another hand, y’know.” He says, shifting so that he holds up both of his hands, elbows resting against the bed.

The dragons waste no time to swarm over his cybernetic arm, claws hooking onto the nooks and crannies of the machinery, giving small bites to the ends of his fingers. They rub themselves against it fiercely, harder than they had been with his flesh hand which hangs limply from his wrist, forgotten by the serpents.

Their purring becomes chirps and chitters, small growls of affection as they curl around his arm, endlessly entertained by it. They bump heads, communicate something that Jesse either doesn’t see or hear because suddenly they crawl off of him and to the empty side of the bed.

Jesse hardly has time to adjust and look over at them when Hanzo, one and human and in Jesse’s clothes, rolls and leans over him, taking his face in both hands and kissing him soundly. It sparks like lightning and Hanzo grins when he pulls away. “How are you feeling?”

He can’t help wrapping his arms around the man on top of him, grabbing his wrists to keep them locked and it’s divine when Hanzo purrs and rests his head underneath his chin. He makes himself comfortable, like he belongs against Jesse and the gunslinger has no say in the matter.

“Better.”

It’s not silent, but it’s peaceful. They lay there together, Hanzo’s broad figure keeping him pinned. But it wasn’t as if he wanted to get up anyways.

Jesse isn’t sure what’s brewing in the miniscule space between them. He can’t speak for the other man, and the attention and the affection are welcome, but he knows nothing of Hanzo besides little tidbits he slowly remembers being told. He’s hesitant to decide what they have together. He isn’t certain about the future, but in the moment, he feels warmth.

“We should get up.” He murmurs as he ducks his head down, words muffled in silky black hair.

Hanzo stretches along him like a cat basking in the sun and when he coils back, he twines his legs with Jesse’s. There’s a rasp of scales against his legs, pulling hairs here and there, causing him to shift uncomfortably. “To what end?”

He doesn’t answer, content with the archer laid upon his body. It’s long minutes before he repeats himself. “We should get up.”

“We should.” Hanzo agrees.

“We need to decide our next step.”

“We do.”

He pauses, doesn’t move an inch. “We need to get up.”

Hanzo huffs, seems to press Jesse further into the mattress, comforts him with a solid weight. Sleep calls to him, the light promise of sweet dreams instead of grisly nightmares.

Everything’s at ease. There is no silence, but his mind is quiet.

They’re feather light at first, spread between the seconds so far that he almost convinces himself that he’s imagining things. Light kisses begin to linger, soft chuffs filling the space between. Lips part against his neck, emptiness beyond them until there’s the ever so slight grazing of teeth and Jesse’s breath hitches.

Hanzo stops suddenly and recoils, pulling his face away from Jesse’s neck and pressing his lips, tightly closed into a frown, against his shoulder.

Jesse lets go of the man, shifts up on the bed. Hanzo halfheartedly clings to him, slipping down as they move until his head rests on the gunslinger’s belly. “Hanzo... “ Warm eyes stare up at him, eyebrows pinched in thought. “You don’t have to- I mean. If yer tryin’ to repay me… a drink will do just fine.”

A predatory smile spreads across Hanzo’s lips with a small flash of teeth. “If you are trying to say that I am…” He looks down at where his arm rests around Jesse’s waist, “because I am saying thank you, then you are mistaken.” He tightens his hold, fingers digging into the soft pudge on the cowboy’s side. “If a madman could not make me bend to his will, there is nothing you could make me do.”

Jesse’s fingers find themselves dancing along the archer’s arm, tracing down scales that peek out beneath the rolled up sleeve of his shirt.

“That I would not want to do.”

He doesn’t respond, can’t find a way to draw his attention from the markings. He recalls his dreams - were they? - in the cabin; all of the places Hanzo refused to let him see or touch. Jesse remembers back to Hanzo in the cell at the main base, curled and trying to cover the patches of skin, his body covered in blue.

Hanzo sits up, kneeling beside him, and unbuttons his shirt.

The cowboy jerks forward, grabbing at the garment and keeping the two halves held together. He searches Hanzo’s face for a sign that this is all fake, that the boss had gotten to him and this was somehow an elaborate ruse to draw Jesse into a false security so they could see just how loyal he really was.

A hand pushes him back into his recline, and then takes his own, prying them off of the shirt and bringing them up to sharp cheeks where Hanzo purrs and rubs against them, smiling. His shirt falls open, skin and scales bared to the light of day.

“You have questions.”

It’s a statement. All Jesse can do is nod.

The archer chuckles, releases his hands and moves forward. He straddles Jesse’s stomach, perching neatly upon him like he belongs there, like he’d give the world to be right there and nowhere else. He pulls the shirt off and tosses it to the side, straightens himself out, puffing his chest, and lets Jesse look.

And look he does.

His right arm is covered in a large patch of scales that leaves little room for skin. The blue winds down his arm, tapering when it gets to his wrist but doesn’t stop until it encompasses two of his fingers - ones that had previously been covered by a glove.

There’s another patch on his right side, starting just beneath the ribcage and going down, down until it disappears beneath the waistband of his borrowed boxers and reappearing to cover the outside of his thigh. Two patches, identical, peek from beneath the garment as well, on the insides of his thighs, and the outside of his left thigh is also covered, leaving strips of skin twisting down them.

Just above his knees begins two other patches, one on each leg, and from what Jesse can see, cover his calves in asymmetrical, irregular shapes - like the spots of a paint horse. There’s more scattered across his chest and what he can feel of his back, are smaller spots, no bigger than pennies.

Jesse glides his fingers down them - smooth - and back up - rough. Like shark skin. “Is this…” He pauses to look up, finding Hanzo watching him intently. “Is this ’cause yer a dragon?” He braves the truth, looks for confirmation of what hasn’t been said aloud.

Hanzo nods with a hum. “Most of it,” He takes Jesse’s hands once more, guiding them to his thighs. “These and my arm,” He makes a motion with the tattooed appendage. “Are from being a dragon.”

Dragon. Part of the cowboy is afraid, a beast of myth said to devour men has chosen him for company. But another part, is enthralled, drawn in because him, of all the people in the world - of all the men less rotten and easier on the eyes - Jesse is who Hanzo is with.

“And the rest of it?”

The archer casts a glance to his other arm. “You have heard of chimeras, yes?”

Jesse laughs. “Don’t go tellin’ me those beasts ain’t myths either. Don’t know if I can deal with knowin’ one of them buggers might be around.”

“Not the myth.” Hanzo says grimly. “The medical phenomena.”

It’s the cowboy’s turn to hold Hanzo’s hands, covering them with his own and giving his wrists a gentle squeeze. “I don’t know anythin’ about it, but hell, I’ll listen.”

“The easy way to explain it: two-in-one.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “There are many ways it can manifest… I absorbed my twin before I was born.”

“So one of those dragons is you and the other is them?”

Hanzo shakes his head with a smile. “They are both me. I am one and I am two. It is… rather difficult to explain, but no- my twin perished and I was left with what was still developing.” He chuckles. “I suppose it was a blessing as much a curse. I would have been killed if my twin were dominant.”

“Dominant.”

Hanzo’s eyes go sharp, he glances down to his thighs. “Old ways of mating for dragons… my family went by the book for centuries. A dominant dragon has scales on the outside, a lesser has them on the inside.”

Jesse dares to drop his hands, running his fingers along the scales covering his thighs, inside and outside. “You have both.”

“I do not know which are mine.” He laughs, empty and hollow. It’s a sound that puts Jesse on edge. “Such asinine traditions- they would have never let a lesser dragon be the heir to our clan.”

“How are they… used for mating?” The words stick to the cowboy’s throat. He’s afraid Hanzo will misunderstand why he’s asking - curiosity rather than perversion.

The archer quirks an eyebrow, smiles with teeth like somehow Jesse has stepped foot into another trap. “You have felt them. Smooth one way, _rough_ another.” He leans down over the cowboy, faces close, and smoke wafts from his lips. “Imagine what marks get left between your legs when I make you scream my name. Imagine how raw your hips will be when I ride you for hours.” He brushes his thumb against the scruff on jesse’s chin and gives a short, low laugh. “Mating marks, not like in stories where they last forever - no - these must be consistently _maintained_.” He purrs, drifting close enough that Jesse can feel his breath on his lips.

Heat flares in the pit of Jesse’s gut, blossoms and spreads because he is allowed to want. He’s already turned his back on Talon, there’s no front to keep. It’s all up to him, his choices. His fingernails dig into the scales on the outsides of Hanzo’s thighs. He desperately wants.

All at once he surges up, catching those wicked lips and flipping them. He cages Hanzo with his arms and his body, groans when he feels the archer grind into his stomach, seeking friction.

He’s about to slide up, grant them both a reprieve of the tension that strings taut between them, when there’s a fierce knocking at the door.

“Mr. Doe?”

They still, lips parting and eyes staring wide into each others’. Only their soft panting breaks the quiet as they wait, both praying for the knocker to go away.

Hanzo’s hips give a shallow thrust, intent on starting where they picked up, drawing Jesse’s attention to the wrongfully beautiful man underneath him.

A knock comes again. “Mr. Doe, someone left a message at the front desk for you.” A piece of paper slides underneath the door and footsteps fade away.

Paranoia kills whatever mood had brewed between them. Someone knows they’re here, and if anyone knows, then Talon is for sure to know as well. There’s something to be said about how Hanzo lets him get up quickly and snag the slip of paper, doesn’t try to coax him back into bed, doesn’t try to make him pretend that they aren’t being hunted.

The actions of a man who knows the feeling well enough to see it in others. Perhaps knows it well enough that he encourages Jesse to do what will make him feel safe.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he braces himself as Hanzo drapes over his back, looks over his shoulder to read with him.

“You have 10 minutes, Train Robber.” Jesse reads aloud.

For five seconds, everything stills. No birds, no yelling from down the hall, even the sound of their breathing is absent. The world senses that danger looms.

They’re both up in an instant, pulling on clothes, collecting their scarce belongings. Jesse makes sure that everything is in their bag or put back in place as Hanzo wipes down the surfaces and remakes the bed. They’re ghosts. If Talon is coming, there will be no trace that they’ve been in this room.

Out the door in five minutes, Hanzo grabs his wrist and drags him to a car. “I prepared it last night,” He casts a furtive look over the cowboy. “Untrackable.” He pops the trunk.

Jesse tosses the bags in, slams it shut and lets out a long shuddering breath. He leans on it, nails scratching against the paint and his cybernetic hand crumples the metal like paper. “Who sent that?” He asks aloud.

“Do we need to know, Jesse? We were given a warning.” The archer opens the driver’s side door and watches him closely.

He bolts, jogs to the front desk and ignores Hanzo’s shouting at him. He wrests the door open and finds an old woman sitting behind the desk, knitting on her lap.

“Ah, Mr. John Doe’s friend. Everythin’ alright there, dear? Heart’s quicker than a jackrabbit.” She laughs, mouth wide and showing missing teeth.

“Who left that message? The one for Mr. Doe.” He asks, leaning forward, studying her carefully. There’s always the possibility she’s not blind, that she called in a tip to the police about a wanted man in her hotel and searching him pinged Talon’s system - it always does, only now it won’t be used to protect him anymore.

She taps her chin with a spindly finger. “I didn’t see ‘em.” She pauses, then barks out a laugh, amused by her own jest. “Fella had real loud footsteps, but I smelled ‘im before I heard ‘im. Almost thought someone was bringin’ me a bouquet of dead bodies - lord knows I’ve sniffed my fair share of ‘em here.” She hums. “Voice was real scratchy, almost didn’t catch what he was sayin’.”

Jesse’s at a loss, the description doesn’t bring anyone to mind immediately. He says nothing, doesn’t want to linger and Hanzo honks the horn of the car impatiently outside.

His hand is on the doorknob when a hand wraps around his wrist and pulls for his attention. He turns, finds himself staring down into pale blue eyes, unseeing and yet they peer into his heart.

“You will plummet into a lake of fire without the wind beneath your wings.” She says, accent twisted, a grim gravity to her voice.

The cowboy rips his arm away from her, sneers and gets through the door as quickly as he can. He doesn’t have the time to dilly dally with a crazed old woman. He jumps into the passenger’s side as quickly as possible and ignores the furious glare from Hanzo as they speed off, leaving dust and a quiet hotel in their wake.

From the lobby, the blind woman stares after them. A smile breaks across her face and she shuffles back to her desk. “Ah, Huey, yer children are always steppin’ in it.”

-

Hanzo is silent, but the radio pushes noise into the air. Soft, music station chosen at random to fill the void.

Jesse is sunken in his seat, arms crossed and hat tipped down to cover his face. He fucked up, he knows. He wasted precious time by chasing after a lead that wouldn’t serve them any good. So what if he knew who sent the message, they were on the run, not heading to a base where they could pull up information.

Old habits die hard.

He wasted time approaching the old woman, who spouted nothing but nonsense at him, delaying them. Jesse’d bet the farm she’s somehow linked to Talon - there was a whole binder filled with spreadsheets about which pies Talon stuck its fingers in. The Jade could’ve very well been one of many in that binder.

For the first time in hours, Hanzo speaks to him. “We will need gas.”

“When?”

The car sputters and they turn into a gas station parking lot. “Now.” The archer says nothing more, but communicates his ire by slamming the door unnecessarily hard when he exits.

Jesse follows, pops the trunk and double checks what he’s got tucked away in his bag. A few flashbangs, spare bullets, and a half empty pack of cigars. Clothes of course, some rumpled from being tossed in, others folded still from when he pulled them out of his dresser back at the base.

“Where is the money?” Hanzo asks.

The cowboy picks up his head and stares at him. “Money?”

“You know, for paying for essentials.” He waits a beat and frowns at the silence that follows. “You did not bring any.”

Jesse puts his hands on his hips, scowls at the archer. “Talon gave us cards, and I reckon you don’t want them usin’ that to track us down.”

“So no cash?”

“No.”

“And no personal cards?”

“Not a one. And before you ask, I ain’t got no chips either.”

He winces at the frustrated growl, ducks back down into his bag. He wants something to pass the time on the road, something to pull him away from the silence… if they ever get back on the road. His gameboy is tucked in the side pocket still, from his previous mission with Widowmaker and training up more of the pokemon seems like a good distraction.

Unzipping the pocket, he’s reminded of where Widowmaker had stashed her own.

Bile rises in the back of his throat. She compromised her status within Talon by letting him escape, and he’s now repaid her by taking her only means of ignoring the reality of her life. Her gameboy is within the pocket as well, nestled with his own. He’s stolen everything from her.

“Do we have anything to sell? There is a pawn shop across the road.”

50 Year Anniversary edition. “Give me a moment.” He replies, drawing his eyebrows together. They have nothing else, and at least they will provide a decent amount of cash, enough for gas, and food.

He bites at his cheek as he pulls the game cartridges out of the gameboys. At least the data will be safe, but who knows when he’ll ever be able to use them again. He shoves the cartridges back in the pocket, zips it, buries the memories of that game next to the ones of poker night with Blackwatch. A Cacnea and a Mawile lay next to trinkets that remind him of friends long past.

“I’ll be right back.” He says, and jogs across the street.

Ten minutes and some heavy haggling later, he’s up one hundred and twenty bucks, but down two game systems. It isn’t much, forty of it will go toward this tank of gas and they’ll have to save the rest for food and more gas. If only they lived back in the 2010’s, that money would have gone a lot farther.

Jesse pays the gas station and sits in the car as Hanzo fills it up. He feels like shit, so when Hanzo slides in, he sinks back down in his seat, turns away and covers his face with his hat.

He only breaks the terse silence with a mumbled ‘thank you’ when Hanzo turns the radio volume up just a bit more, filling the space.

-

Five hours in, Hanzo pulls off the highway and it’s the jerk of the car being put in park that puts Jesse on high alert. He looks around, wild eyes and half-certain he’s about to be offered up for the bounty. They need money and the pawnshop cash can only last so long.

However, instead of a police station, he finds them parked in front of a run down fast food place, advertising fried chicken in a variety of styles. His insides twist as he remembers Boss’ criticism of his heft- the wound on his esteem stings again. But this time, soothing hands are tightly fisted on the steering wheel and once benevolent eyes are narrowed from his silence.

“Go.” Hanzo instructs, sharp gaze flicking to him before darting back to the building before them.

Jesse sputters, sits up straight. “Hanzo, you can’t just kick me out of the car. I know I-”

“You need food.”

Oh. He looks at the building, feels hands grabbing at the thick pudge on his waistline. Ghostly fingers dig in and pull, laughs echoing in the back of his head. Eyes stare from all around, suppressing any appetite he had from the long drive. “I ain’t hungry.” He insists, sinking back into his seat, chewing at the inside of his cheek.

The dragon rounds on him, staring intently before clicking his tongue. With purposeful force, a display of irritation, the man hauls himself out of the car and slams the door shut behind him.

The silence is different when Hanzo leaves. It surrounds and suffocates the sharpshooter, heavy like the black serape on his shoulders. He quickly draws a half smoked cigar from his shirt pocket and lights it. He holds a deep pull in his lungs until it burns and his eyes water, tucks into the door and waits.

He pulls too much too fast because the cigar is down to a tiny stub when Hanzo returns. He loads two bags into Jesse’s lap and two drinks into the cup holders. “Water.” He says, getting into his seat and starting up the car.

Jesse peers into the bags, one is full of bread rolls and the other with cups of mashed potatoes and mac and cheese. “No chicken,” He says, mostly to himself, but the dragon hums curtly in confirmation and acknowledges him no further.

It pulls at his chest and those invisible demons paw at his bulk more, their tugging becoming painful. The message from Hanzo is clear, even though it is said with more tact than Boss’ method - less fried food, he’s too big.

It smarts worse than the words, a special kind of betrayal. Here he thought that he was enough for the man beside him, just right, nothing to change but with the freedom to transform if Jesse desired to.

He makes it through a cup of potatoes and a roll before his stomach tells him enough. The stress threatens to make him heave, but he tamps it down with small sips of water.

-

“I need to pee.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in three hours and it leaves his voice scratchy.

Hanzo eyes him from the corner of his eyes and sighs, turning off the highway at the nearest point. A truckstop looms before them, not nearly as dilapidated as the chicken joint, but not pristine either.

Jesse unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door before they’ve even come to a complete stop, hopping out of the car and jogging to the bathroom as fast as he can. He relieves himself quickly, not aiming to linger any longer than needed. They need to keep moving.

He washes his hands, splashes water on his face. The cool water drips down his beard, seeping in between the strands and the feeling is crisp, clean, so he does it again. He repeats the action, three times, maybe four before he realizes that some of the droplets are not from splashed water.

He’s crying and Jesse honestly can’t fathom why he wouldn’t be. He’s on the run, a bounty that could probably buy a small country over his head, and he has roughly seventy dollars in cash to his name. He’s given up everything he has to escape with a man whom is currently aggravated with him - Jesse has questions, wants to see more shimmering patches of scales that he covers up. He wants, but he can’t have so long as the archer remains at a distance from him.

Jesse braces himself on the sink, hands gripping onto both sides, and hangs his head. He needs to let it all out now before he goes back, before he faces the scrutiny of Hanzo and breaks under the pressure.

A gentle hand, calloused and scented like cloves, slips under his chin and up his jaw. It turns his head and thin lips press against his temple. “ _Mijo,_ ” his mother’s voice croons, spanish flowing like he heard before she remarried, before she too was forced to ignore her roots. “ _You are strong._ ”

He laughs, hollow and self depreciating.

The hand on his beard is forceful, turns his head further so he has to look up into the mirror. He sees her, softly wrinkled skin and dark brown hair streaked with gray - she always did say she would age beautifully. “ _Even now,_ ” Her thumb wiped at a tear but the droplet continued its descent, a ghost. “ _You face so much and still give yourself to others._ ”

A choked sob works its way up Jesse’s throat. He doesn’t want to see her here, doesn’t want to have the possibility in his head that she’s dead. “Ma,” He tries to touch her hand but goes right through her, and he scrapes his nails down his cheek instead. “I’m lost.”

“ _We all get lost in our lives,_ ” She soothes, wrapping an arm around him. “ _But sometimes, off the edge of one map, lies another._ ”

He shuts his eyes, lets the warmth surround him, lets himself cry.

Another presence joins, large and imposing. He was young, tiny and unaware, but he remembers the feeling of that love. He remembers his father always coming home with wide open arms, calling for his kids, dropping to his knees so they could scramble and get to him. A family man, a heart too big for the world - but that only made it a bigger target. He’d like to imagine.

“ _Isko_ ,” the large man rumbled, hand dropping on his shoulder. “I am so proud.”

Jesse opens his eyes again and sees a man who only stares back in photos. Eyes always so full of happiness, smiling wide and always there with his Ma. “Even after all I’ve done?”

The man nods, squeezes his shoulder. “After all you’ve done. You’ve faced so much, and still you fight. I will always be proud as long as you keep fighting.”

“ _We will always love you,_ ” His mother says, placing her hand atop his father’s. “ _Through the good and the bad, and the ugly; you are our son. As long as you do what is right,_ ”

“As long as you stand tall, we will never stop loving you.”

Jesse crumples, leans on the sink and feels them fade away, leaving stones to weigh down his heart.

He leans there for a long while, hoping they’ll come back and stay.

When they don’t, he washes his face once more. His serape catches on the sink, tears and pulls and he snarls at the garment, tossing it to the ground. The heavy fabric lands on the floor with a thud, a mass which made its mark as his moniker, a fearsome image when it comes for you.

The gunslinger drags his feet back out to the car, slides in and tucks back against the door as soon as he’s able.

“Are you done wasting time?” Hanzo quips.

Jesse shoots a withered glare at the archer, their eyes locking. Something flashes across Hanzo’s eyes and his scowl softens - he turns away before Jesse can read it.

The silence returns, but an hour after they leave the truck stop, Hanzo reaches for his hand. He threads their fingers together but says nothing. A small give in a stalemate.

-

It was only a matter of time before Talon started thinking ahead of them.

A boat was the most covert way to cross the ocean. Teleports and hypertrains required identification, of which Hanzo didn’t have and Jesse’s would raise the alarm. Most docks were used for cargo ships these days, and the few passenger ships that went out were light on security. If you had enough money for a ticket, you could get on.

Cash was one issue, another was the Talon agents stationed around the docks, unmarked vests and high-grade guns at the ready.

They’re hiding behind a pillar, avoiding suspicion from pedestrians by huddling close together, like lovers parting who might not see each other again for a long while.

Hanzo is leaning against a wall, looking up at him with lips pulled tight - his mood likely worsened due to Jesse’s continued silence for the entire drive. Twelve hours of nearly nothing since they left the gas station.

Jesse stands in front of him, leaning in with one hand propping him up against the wall behind Hanzo, and his other holds the archer’s face, thumb brushing his beard.

“What is the plan?” The archer murmurs, voice low like they’re passing secret promises to each other before departing.

Jesse hums, fakes a smile. “We only got enough money for the one ticket, right?” Hanzo nods. “There’s baggage storage room in the back left, think you could sneak your way over there?” He asks, leaning closer.

He likes how this feels, the closeness with Hanzo, even if he’s frustrated with him. He likes how the dragon is smaller than him, not by much, but enough that he fits right into whatever space Jesse creates with his body.

“Give me five minutes and I will be there.”

He slides his hand to the archer’s chin, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. He focuses on the way his lips part and a gentle, barely there, wisp of smoke escapes. Alluring. “Guess I’ll see ya soon then.” He says, swooping down and leaving a peck on his cheek. He wants more, but he doesn’t want to push the man’s temper.

Hanzo makes to walk away, but second guesses his movement. He swings back around, slips his hand to the back of Jesse’s neck and pulls him in for a heated kiss, one that draws attention but definitely sells their charade of lovers parting. He pulls back a slight amount, smirking between them. “That is how you properly kiss goodbye.” He quickly kisses Jesse again, brief but forceful. “Do not do anything stupid, cowboy.”

Jesse wraps his arms around Hanzo’s waist, pulls him into a tight embrace and his heart races when he feels Hanzo ever so slowly rub his face in the crook of his neck; the quiet anger passing with the dip of his shoulders. “I make no promises, darlin’.” He lets go, waves as Hanzo slips away - lovers saying goodbye.

The wait is agonizing, but he waits longer than five minutes just in case something unforeseen came up and Hanzo had trouble.

When it’s time, he makes a show of sauntering loudly up to the ticket booth, clicks his spurs against the ground with every step. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees four of the spread Talon agents talk into their comms.

He grins easy at the woman in the window, though she looks like she’s nearly dead with boredom. “Hello there, beautiful.” She glances up, unaffected by his southern charm. “I’d like one ticket to Barcelona, please.”

She spits out a price, like a machine, and he hands over what is essentially the last of his money for the ticket.

They’re swarming, more and more Talon agents gathering. There’s blood in the water and he’s the bait.

He meanders his way to the back corner where the storage is, taking his time and making sure that the agents keep up. There’s more than six, and his eye is still tender, a feeling of being bruised without the discoloration, so Deadeye is out of question. He’s banking everything on the lone flashbang in his back pocket.

Jesse slips inside the dark room, eyes darting around to see where Hanzo might be hiding, but he sees nothing. Empty. He either bailed or got caught, but either way, he’s alone and about to have roughly ten Talon agents coming for his hide.

His mind kicks into overdrive as he listens for their footsteps outside. He can pistol whip the first one hard enough to kill him, he’s done it before. He can jab the throat of the second with his elbow, cave a face in of another with his prosthetic. Seven left, roughly. But by then, they’ll be all over him, even if he managed to get them down to six, they’re too close to him. Deadeye may work, but it will leave him in agony, drop him to the ground and the authorities will find him - he’ll be unable to fight back. Or worse, more Talon agents. Jesse holds his breath.

This is it.

How it ends.

Jesse McCree, taken down while trying to do a good thing and escape to somewhere he might be happy. A place he might smile like he hasn’t been able to do since he was eleven years old; before he shot his mother’s husband, before he joined the Deadlock Rebels, before Blackwatch, Overwatch, Talon, before lady luck decided he was lucky enough with his wicked aim and damn the rest.

He stalks to the back of the room, leans against the back wall and faces the door. He’ll go down fighting. The first six will get bullets in their skulls.

Warmth streaks down his face, tears. He’s faced death plenty of times, but usually that all boiled down to his own mistakes, his own stupidity. He’d never faced a situation where he was sure the plan would work only to have his partner gone. It’s made all the worse because he still wants to kiss Hanzo silly, wreck that unfairly beautiful man and be broken to pieces by him.

Jesse pulls out Warbringer, a weapon he loathes, and cocks the hammer- lets out a laugh when he hears them at the door.

He lets the warmth draw inside of him, ready to explode and take them down with him.

They kick open the doors, and damn it all if brute forcing an unlocked entrance isn’t a perfect way to describe Talon.

‘ _Howdy boys_ ,’ He imagined himself saying coolly, last words before a bloody end. But the words die in his throat and the bloom of Deadeye cools when he sees _them_.

Large, sinuous, coiled tightly against the wall but not blocking the door, is Hanzo. The dragons are thicker around than Jesse is, and the unsuspecting Talon agents charge in.

They all take formation, a semicircle of men aiming their guns at him, ready to take him down. They know what he’s capable of, know to pump him full of bullets if he even flinches.

What they don’t know, what they don’t see, is the dragons moving along the surfaces of the room, readying for a strike. Hanzo is no rattlesnake, he’ll give no warning before he bites. A tail pushes the doors shut, makes them all jump and lose their focus for an instant.

It’s enough.

Jesse grabs for his flashbang, throws it at the feet of the Talon agents, but at the last moment something brushes against his back and he jumps. The flashbang lands too close and blinds him; the brightness doesn’t bother him for long, but the ringing in his ears doesn’t stop.

He sees gunfire, sees the agents open their mouths to scream, and sees the fear in their eyes. It’s a massacre, but all he focuses on is how _beautiful_ Hanzo looks as he tears them apart. His lips are curled, teeth bloody as he tears into bodies. His claws dig deep and rend flesh. His body sparks with lightning that arcs between his horns and looping coils.

Jesse feels movement along his side, and a jaw snaps terribly at the corner of his vision. Right, the second one. It circles around him, creating a barrier between him and the carnage. It bumps its head under his empty hand and he grips into the gold fur automatically, grounding himself.

The ringing slowly subsides, leaves him with a cotton-stuffed sensation in his head.

The dragons slither around him, shrinking as they crawl at his feet and then begin a climb upward. They nose at his neck, chuffing and rubbing with claws grabbing tightly onto his clothes.

“Jesse…” They sound wary. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “Well, no. But, we got a boat to catch, right?”

They don’t answer, but Hanzo makes sure to rub against his neck on both sides once more for good measure as the dragons crawl down into his chest plate, curling up together against him.

He’d like to say it’s the boat that rocks him to sleep, but he knows it’s the gentle purring of the serpents against his skin. A comfort he doesn’t think he could ever let go of.

-

From Barcelona to Milan in a hot-wired car, Hanzo stays tucked within his chestplate, chirping softly at him when it becomes clear that he’s not alright. Gentle urges to keep going because they’re almost there.

The cold air of the Alps doesn’t bother him much, but from the way the serpents curl tighter together and beg him to button his shirt up one more button to keep them sealed up better, he can tell it bothers them. He supposes they’re more cold blooded in this form, like reptiles, seeking warmth from him because they can’t do it on their own.

Jesse, of course, is happy to oblige, although he’s too worn out to protest if he wanted to.

When they reach the cabin, there is silence. Hanzo has ceased his purring and the wind doesn’t rustle trees and animals don’t make a peep.

He takes a moment to enjoy it, to revel in the quietness and assess the location. It’s not too different from the cabin Talon used, but it’s far more homely, nestled in a cluster of trees in a thickly wooded area. A porch swing sits unused in the cold weather, but he can tell it’s well loved come summer. The windows are spotless, dustless, and soft brown curtains hang behind them.

Inside there are handwoven rugs and pillows with scandinavian designs, a fireplace begs to be lit, and a large bed invites him to sleep on it’s plush mattress.

“Are you sure… it’s safe?” He asks Hanzo, unbuttoning his shirt and letting the serpents crawl out.

They quickly swarm to the bed, growing to the size they had been back at the hotel and coiling up with each other. “I am sure.” They say in unison. “You and I are one half of the people who know this place exists. No one can get you here-”

The form of a body fills in beneath them and where the dragons once were is now scaled covered skin. They are one once more, a man who sits cross-legged and keeps his eyes trained on Jesse. “- I will not let them.”

How sweetly the words strike him, how much they give him comfort that he wasn’t entirely aware he needed.

Afraid, he’d been so afraid in that luggage room. Ready to fight to the death but not prepared for it, not at peace with going out like that. He regrets not taking Widowmaker with him. He wanted to see his Ma one last time, wanted to apologize to the people he hurt most.

Hanzo fought for him. _Devoured_ for him. At the same time, made sure he was safe and okay, and stayed by his side. He encouraged Jesse to keep standing, to keep living because someone would be there.

Hanzo would be there. Hanzo would fight for him.

Jesse is a strong man, throws a mean right hook and a downright deadly left one. He’s murdered men all his life, evaded the law, fought for it, and worked his way up in a criminal organization for survival. He’s not soft, he’s not weak, and he could fight for himself.

But the knowledge, the simple fact that someone out there, and right in front of him, that is willing to risk just as much for Jesse’s life - one he feels is filthy and undeserving of such kindness - lights a fire in his chest.

He drops his bag, kicks off his boots, and joins the dragon in the bed. He puts himself in Hanzo’s lap, facing him with his legs on either side of the man’s hips. Arms wrap securely around the gunslinger and they fall together, kissing each other breathless.

“Jesse,” Hanzo says when they part for air.

“Hanzo…” He purrs in reply, drawing their faces closer together. “Remind me what you said about these scales of yours.” He taunts the archer, grinning into his words. “Somethin’ ‘bout leavin’ marks and makin’ me scream?”

If the crack of thunder overhead, a storm from nowhere, doesn’t let Jesse know that he’s said the right things, then the short, abortive jerk of Hanzo’s hips beneath his certainly does. A flash of blue along those arms and in those piercing eyes tell him that he’s initiated a challenge that Hanzo intends to win.

“I’d sure like to see how you do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More love for Akirata who keeps having to beta longer and longer chapters. This time it's their own fault tho.
> 
> Genetic Chimerism is a real thing, although most chimeras are unaware of it. There are many forms of chimerism, the one Hanzo displays is Tetragametic Chimerism. I highly recommend reading about it all, very interesting stuff.
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	7. Cabin Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt chapter title: Smut and Stories
> 
> Explicit content right at the beginning and throughout the chapter
> 
> I also feel this in an appropriate time to remind folks that I only do happy endings \o\

“Is it supposed to look like that?”

A delicate foot pushes him away at his shoulder and his eyes trail up Hanzo’s naked chest until he meets sharp blue eyes narrowed in a scowl.

They’re both shirtless and breathless and Hanzo has left fresh marks up Jesse’s neck and across his shoulders. However, not without retaliation; bites blossom red and new down the archer’s chest in a trail. A distraction until the cowboy settled to where he wanted to be and tugged his boxers off the dragon.

He sits between Hanzo’s legs, eyes dropping back down to the sight he hadn’t been expecting. The shock is clearly written on his face, but he hopes dearly that Hanzo recognizes it as curiosity, not disgust.

Hanzo’s dick stands, once proud and now flagging under Jesse’s scrutiny. He’s uncut and a bit larger than the norm, which isn’t a problem. No, the problem would be the two thick ridges of blue scales on the underside, adding to his girth.

“Yes, it is.” The archer sneers, defensive. “Is that a problem? You certainly have a big enough mouth.” The jab is smarts, deserved for his unkindly reaction.

Jesse grabs the foot at his shoulder, encompasses it in his hands and works his thumbs at the soles - an attempt to placate his offended partner. He doesn’t miss Hanzo’s lips parting slightly at the attention. “Size ain’t the problem, darlin’.” He moves one thumb to slide the wrong way against the scales on top of Hanzo’s foot. “But those scales are bound to leave a fella awful sore.”

The dragon chuckles, smoke slips from his mouth, and he leans back, propped up on his elbows as he retracts his foot from the sharpshooter’s hold. “They are different,” He crooks a finger, beckons. “Come, feel.”

He scoots forward, and leans a kiss into blue covered thighs. He reaches for the archer’s cock, breath hitching when it twitches and bumps against his palm. Jesse’s thumb presses near the base where the scales begin and he slides up gradually, drawing a groan from the man before him.

The scales are pebbled, smooth, even where the thickest part of the ridges lay. They remind him of a toy he once considered buying, like glass molded into cresting waves. He drags his thumb back down and finds them just as smooth in the opposite direction.

Jesse can’t help his pleasant hum at the discovery - different scales indeed. It’s a new texture, a grounding feeling like the smooth top of the rabbit skull, the worn metal of his lighter, and the thick strands of dragon fur. He looks up, finds Hanzo smiling smugly at him and is suddenly determines to wipe that look off his face.

He nips up Hanzo’s thighs, biting harder into the scales until a hand tangles in his hair. He plants a soothing kiss over the last bite, smiling into the skin and chancing another glance at Hanzo’s face. Haughty and flushed, the man still stares at Jesse like he knew all along this would be the outcome.

Quickly, Jesse adjusts, turns and licks a broad stripe against pebbled scales. The tug on his hair is well worth the groan he earns. He gives Hanzo no time to prepare, taking the head in his mouth and swirling his tongue. He sinks down as far as he can, mindful of his rusty limitations, and moans softly at the way the ridges bump against his bottom lip as he withdraws.

Hanzo’s cries spur him on, fanning the flames that burn him up and soon Jesse has set a steady pace. He works himself further, laving his tongue along the underside and letting it linger - mapping the pattern of those scales. He never wants to forget them.

Slim hips buck up, pushing Hanzo’s length against the back of his throat without warning. Jesse coughs, sputters, pulls away as fast as he can while tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

The dragon is quick to lean up, pulling at his face and kissing him sweetly with small apologies.

Jesse shimmies out of his boxers, smiling when Hanzo laughs at his dance, and crawls up to straddle the dragon. A half clawed hand cups his cheek, thumb pressing under his chin and forcing him to look up. “Radiant,” Hanzo murmurs, adoration tinging his voice.

Shaking off his hand, the gunslinger goes for a kiss, desire scorching him from the inside. He tries to pull all that Hanzo is into himself, to fill the empty loneliness that brews in the screams of his phantoms.

The archer chuckles when they break for air, “Greedy,” He amends, reaching for a bottle tucked into the nightstand before pulling Jesse closer.

They writhe and tangle together, gasping and grunting as the sweat of their bodies mingles just as much as their heated breath. There’s no space left between them and Jesse loses track of where he ends and Hanzo begins.

Slick, prodding fingers make him gasp and arch into the touch. For too long he’s been without such intimacy - after Talon executed his last one-night stand years ago, a young thing out celebrating his birthday, Jesse stopped seeking companionship. The message was clear: no ties and no distractions.

But here, embraced in strong arms and gazed at like he moves the sun, Jesse is allowed to want. He’s allowed to have.

He pushes back onto Hanzo’s fingers as they prepare him, stifling his groans against pale skin. He nips and pulls at the flesh with teeth, loving the reaction- a bite rewards a thrust of the dragon’s fingers, a kiss begets him a stretch. It feels lewd, almost as if he’s preparing himself for the archer, controlling the hand that tortures him sweetly.

All too soon, Hanzo pulls his fingers out and palms at his ass, calls for Jesse’s attention with a sharp nip to an earlobe.

“Are you certain you want this, Jesse?” He asks, voice stern.

Leaning upward, the cowboy grins wildly, ragged around the edges and allowed to be himself without Talon’s watchful eyes peering down on him. “How did you put it?” He feigns the question, reaching behind himself to give Hanzo a few measured strokes. He delights in the flutter of dark eyelashes, a man completely at his mercy. “If a madman couldn’t break me,” he lines up the dragon’s scaly length and chuckles,“there ain’t nothin’ you could make me do that I don’t wanna.”

The teasing appeases Hanzo, makes him smile right back with a wicked gleam in his eyes. He holds Jesse down by his sides and rolls his hips in a small circle, pushing in slowly. He’s careful like Jesse is the most precious thing to him and the thought tugs at the cowboy’s chest. “Something like that.”

The gunslinger gasps as he’s guided down. “Y-yeah, somethin’ like that.”

Hanzo gives him little time, pulling him back up only for the dragon’s hips to follow. Jesse shudders, moaning softly under his breath.The sensation of being filled, of being wanted, has him crumbling. There’s isn’t a fevered pace that comes with first time lovers, nor a slow tempo meant to last with dinner and some wine- there’s only the desire to feel, to hold and keep close.

The archer grabs his hands, pulls him forward so that Jesse lays on top of his body. Shame, white hot and sharp, flushes across his face at the small ‘oof’ Hanzo lets out. Blessedly, there is no comment made, only arms wrapping around his bulky sides as hanzo’s trusts become more haggard.

Together they rise, sloppy kisses and moans shared with a frequency that makes it hard to tell which sounds come from whom. Is it Hanzo who gasps and moans for more? Is it Jesse who leaves dark marks across a neck and shoulder?

He can feel the scales between his thighs, rubbing the sensitive skin found there and Jesse is sure by the time they’re finished, he’ll be red and raw. The thought thrills him, of having marks, _mating marks_ , that will remind him later of how much he’s desired.

His peak looms, and there’s little he can do to keep him from rushing to it, especially when Hanzo wraps a hand around his dick and drives into him harder. The archer’s strikes that sweet spot within Jesse so easily and he cries out when he topples over the edge. He clings hopelessly to the dragon, riding out his climax and whimpering as the pebbled scales continue to rub against his insides.

The archer soon follows, meeting his hips flush and spilling inside him, Jesse buries the groan against a smooth shoulder. His body buzzes with energy, the empty feeling abated by how he’s filled and the hands that continue to wander his body and bring him down.

Jesse lifts himself up, pulling off of Hanzo’s still hard cock, and flops to the side. He watches Hanzo with keen eyes, brows furrowing as his breath rolls out rapidly. The cowboy lifts a hand and presses it against his chest, feeling that jackrabbit heart beat within. “Sorry.” He murmurs.

The dragon’s gaze is sharp and concerned when it whips to him, a clawed hand coming to cover his own. “There is nothing to be sorry about. I enjoyed it, I enjoy you.” The admission, blatant and unreserved, winds around the cowboy’s heart and squeezes.

“It’d be easier on ya if I were... “ He looks down where his weight hangs toward the bed, pouching to the side under the pull of gravity. “Smaller.”

“Jesse,” A hand cards in his hair, tilts his head up until he stares at worried electric blue. “Do you think your size bothers me?”

“Don’t it?” When he pulls away from the touch, Hanzo is quick to abide by his wishes, releasing him and sitting up to watch him carefully. “I got the hint.”

“What hint?”

“‘Lay off the fried chicken, McCree’,” He mocks the words said to him, “Only bought sides at the chicken place.”

The archer frowns, but the look fades with a softness he can’t bear to place. Hanzo reaches out, carefully and when Jesse doesn’t pull away from the touch, smooths a hand across his hairy belly. “You looked ill at the sight of the place. I thought to get you food that would be filling and not upset your stomach.” He pulls at the cowboy’s side and urges him up. “Come here.”

Jesse relents, crawls into Hanzo’s lap where he tries to make himself small. He curls against the hairless chest, tucks his head down and tries to keep from showing Hanzo just how much words and actions against him have worn him down.

Hanzo’s hands wander and knead at his bulk, the man purring all the while as if all he wants to do in life is touch Jesse. He slips his hands under Jesse’s thighs, pauses. “Hold on to me.”

He barely gives Jesse a second to react, throwing his arms around the archer’s neck, before he’s lifting.

The dragon carries him like he weighs nothing at all, slipping off the bed and meanders slowly to the far wall. He presses Jesse against it, sandwiching the cowboy snuggly and kissing at a tanned neck. “Will you let me take care of you?” He asks, his voice washing over the cowboy as gentle as afternoon waves against the shore.

It takes a lot out of him, but he manages a nod. His body trembles ever so slightly, afraid of what might be revealed if the archer opens him wide enough. The crippling loneliness, the desperation for companionship, the self-loathing and nightmares coalescing into waking terrors that made him cry until his voice gave out.

But, Hanzo had seen all of that, hadn’t he? He’d crawled into a shower at incessant hands and even if he didn’t understand, he chased away the ghosts and began to fill the empty pit that began to swallow Jesse long years ago.

Hanzo adjusts him, slowly slides back into him and the squelch of the mess left behind from their first round makes the gunslinger flush hot red. With one hand, he supports Jesse’s body and the other comes up to cup his cheek. “Does anyone ever ask if you are okay?”

Jesse shakes his head, buries it in the junction of neck and shoulder, inhales a scent of fresh ground spices.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes… no,” He admits. “Gettin’ better.”

Hanzo hums, runs his fingers through wild brown hair. “Is this alright?”

“Yes.”

“You can tell me to stop at any time and I will. I will not think less of you.” He promises.

The cowboy makes an understanding noise, wraps tighter around Hanzo and prepares for a second round. He tries to tamp down feelings of having too much, of being hurt by too many, and search deep for a fire that will make him forget ugly words in their motions.

Instead, it’s slow. Gentle, rising like the sun and gradually warming him. There’s no pulling, no hungry demands for Jesse, just an easy, rolling pace.

He breaks when Hanzo kisses at his temple and murmurs kind words, ‘ _strong_ ’ and ‘ _full of life_ ’ tear him down and the archer is sure to build him back up with ‘ _you’re a good man_ ’ and ‘ _my wonderful_ _Jesse_ ’. The cowboy lets a sob bubble out, his heart jackhammering wildly - someone wants him, someone won’t leave him behind. Someone thinks he’s _good_ , and not just the fuck up or the villain.

“Are you okay?”

He nods and Hanzo continues.

“Your scars, they are all beautiful,” He says, his hand tracing whatever it can find. “They each tell a story,” He pauses at a large one on his hip, twisted and warped from a blade biting into his thick sides. Hanzo is quick to chase away the memories, “Of how long you have fought to exist.”

Jesse claws at what he can of Hanzo, tries to get him to go faster, to try and bury the sobs and fears that surge up and try to drown him.

“Are you okay?” He shakes his head wildly and Hanzo is quick to grab his face, force a meeting of eyes. “Do you want me to stop?” Jesse shakes his head again and for a moment, Hanzo looks conflicted. “Tell me what you need.”

“More…. Please.”

When the archer nods, Jesse tucks back into his neck, hiding from a world that would rip him apart if they found him so exposed.

He trusts Hanzo, a man who has shown more faith in him than anyone Jesse’s ever known, and he’ll never figure out why. A man who holds him like he’s small, whispers to the gunslinger that he fits perfectly in his arms, that he never wants to let go. A man who fucks him like they’ve loved each other for ages, like it’s just them in this cabin and the world outside of it doesn’t exist.

He shakes, erection bumping against hanzo’s stomach, and with little more than languid thrusts, softly spoken praise and adoration, Jesse tips over the edge.

The gunslinger weeps openly when Hanzo holds him through it, And when the archer calls him ‘ _Good_ ’. For once, since before he shot his mother’s husband, he believes it.

-

Five times since the first, Hanzo has brought him to climax, and each time it leaves Jesse craving more and more. The dragon is addicting, and he feels no extreme exhaustion from their prolonged activities. It takes a few minutes of catching their breath before they’re rolling around again, kissing and biting and holding each other close.

Living and learning together.

It’s when Jesse tries for a sixth round that Hanzo finally sits up and gives him a concerned look, one that has the cowboy frightened that he’s asking for too much. It’s hard for him to stop, he wants and he’s allowed to have. He plans to take advantage of it while he can.

“You are not… tired? Sore?” Hanzo asks, cupping his jaw.

Jesse grins and shakes his head. “Only sore in all the right ways, darlin’.” He doesn’t miss the way Hanzo relaxes at the pet name. “How ‘bout yourself there?”

The dragon chuckles, draws him into a kiss. “You know I am no ordinary man, Jesse. I can go for days given the proper circumstances and ample supplies. I am more concerned about you.”

“I’m fine, promise. A little tender in the heart, but that’s nothin’ to keep me from goin’ again.”

Hanzo’s brows furrow and lets his hands wander the gunslinger’s body, checking for injuries or tense muscles from overexertion. Finding none, he hums a question that goes unasked. “You surprise me. Anyone else would have passed out by now, a few might be dead or damaged if they kept up the pace which you insist upon.”

The cowboy grins wolfishly and grabs hold of Hanzo’s hips, bringing them together and pressing flush against him. “Guess I got more stamina than yer Average Joe.”

“I do not know who this ‘Joe’ is,” The archer teases, hand snaking behind his partner and easily slipping his fingers into him. “But he does not have dragons to sate.”

With a gasp and an earnest cackle, Jesse kisses at Hanzo’s neck. “S’pose I better get to work then.”

-

Hanzo carries him to the shower and Jesse relaxes in his hold. It’s nice to be doted on and, unsure of how long it will last, he soaks up all he can.

Warm water washes away the grime and filth from their activities - though he’s absolutely certain they won’t stay clean for long. Hanzo washes him first, scrubbing him down, gentle when he reaches between his legs. Jesse keens when fingers drift over sensitive skin rubbed raw from scales and the dragon soothes him with whispered praises.

The cowboy does the same for Hanzo, crooning sweet nothings as he shampoos ink colored tresses. He takes extra care with his scales, each patch lovingly washed longer than necessary, but his heart flutters at the soft sighs his ministrations draw.

He’s worried with how easily he’s falling into the role of a lover, how much he craves Hanzo’s affection, and how much he wants to simply be with him. Circumstances have forced more trust between them than if they had met on the streets and so far he’s yet to be let down by the archer.

Abruptly, Hanzo turns and stares up at Jesse with his brows drawn together. “You knew my brother.” A statement rather than a question, but the gunslinger nods in affirmation anyways. “I killed him.”

“I know.”

His words only seem to puzzle the archer. “Do you not care or want to know why?”

Jesse shrugs, drapes his arms over broad shoulders and links his fingers behind the dragon’s head. “Sorta, just for the sake of knowin’. But I ain’t seen your brother in years, and I figure if I did see ‘im, I’m someone he’s not gonna be eager to let live.”

Hanzo purses his lips, ducks his head against the cowboy’s chest. “Did you know, if one of me gets hurt, both will feel it?” Jesse shakes his head. “I did not either… until I was used against me.”

There’s nothing he can think to respond with, and the softness in the archer’s voice, the slight tremble when he says the word ‘used’, twists at Jesse’s chest. So he wraps his arms around the dragon, holds him because he knows if it was his secret and his story, Hanzo would hold him just the same. Supportive and caring.

“I used to be… efficient. Two places at once. In my home, my being was not a secret and my clan was used to seeing me all around.” He draws in a shaky breath. “One day… they pressed a knife to my throat, threatened the other me if I did not obey their orders.” Hanzo kneads his hands into Jesse’s side, looking for something to hold onto. “I was to remove my brother.”

The words are heavy like a stone, and not even the drumming of the shower can drown out the volumes they speak.

The dragon chuckles weakly and grabs at Jesse for strength. “I loved my brother but I love myself more. I was afraid of feeling my death… I was afraid of losing a piece of me.

“I thought I could do it, but when it came time to land the final blow, I-” The dragon’s words hitch, “He was my brother, the only one who did not care what my scales meant. He always knew what was wrong from right and I envied- no, I admired that.”

“Hey,” Jesse, presses kisses against the top of Hanzo’s head, pulls him closer. “He lived.”

“He did,” The archer agrees. “I was not sure if he would make it long enough to be found when I put him in that alley. And even if he did, I had done… a terrible thing.

“I do not separate anymore; I will never leave my side again.”

The gunslinger hums in acknowledgement, surrounds Hanzo with all that he is. He tries to drown out the pain that surfaces in the dragon, a type of regret that can’t be cured from forgiveness and the passage of time. Redemption is a long and painful road, one that might never end.

“That’s alright, darlin’.” He says, pulling away from Hanzo to meet his eyes. “I got plenty of room for the both of ya,” Jesse pats his chest. “Right here.” He means in his arms, within his grasp, but when Hanzo falls against him and burrows as close as he possibly can, Jesse thinks he likes the other interpretation just as well.

-

_Jesse screams before the body hits the ground. Just fifteen years of age, his voice cracks and wavers but there is no rush of embarrassment swift to follow._

_It’s fear, panic, cold and weighty like a chunk of ice settling in his stomach. Back then, he was trying to prove his worth and the hot tears that threatened to cascade down his young, round cheeks would only tarnish his standing in the gang - so he forced them back._

_But there is no holding down the agonizing scream that tears from his throat, even if he had tried. Anguished and broken, it echoes hauntingly in the empty warehouse. A place where, only an hour ago, two shitheel teenagers had laughed their ugly little snickers at a dirty joke._

_His eye burns like a fire in the dry season, flushing across his face. It even makes the pain in his hand feel dull. Shrapnel is embedded in his palm, his firearm burst open and warped horribly from the abuse - it was never meant to fire bullets that fast._

_Twelve shots in a single second._

_Twelve bodies cast across the ground like an angry mural._

_But only eleven are enemies._

_Jesse casts what remains of his gun to the ground and runs to the center of the carnage, a child strewn across the filthy floor. Dirty blonde hair soaks in a backdrop of crimson, an angel fallen in the light streaming from high windows._

_He drops to his knees beside the prone form, grabbing the lapels of a leather jacket and hauling his friend’s body to a sitting position. “Les,” He pleads, jolting the corpse. “Leslie, c’mon. It ain’t funny.” He gives it another shake, his pleas turning to frustrated huffs._

_With one eye swelling shut and the other brimming with tears he has to force down, it’s easy to ignore the bullet hole in the middle of Leslie’s forehead._

_Hands find him and haul him up. He lets them._

_But when more hands dare to touch his friend, he fights. He attacks like a savage beast, raking fingernails at the offender and biting, drawing blood. Leslie is his. His friend, his companion._

_It takes two large men to manhandle him into the truck and peel out, and when they get back to the Deadlock hideout, he’s still spitting fire and fighting anything he can. He breaks a nose, twists an arm, and knocks the wind out of at least two others before he’s subdued._

_They toss him in the backroom, leave him to stew with an injured hand and a volatile mood - denying what he knows happened._

_He starts up cursing and yelling when the door opens and he catches sight of a homely woman, hair tied up in a bun and wearing a red gingham dress. She smiles sweetly but that stokes the fires of fury more. He calls her a bitch, a whore, and insults her age._

_Ma Deadlock, for all her silence and her demure appearance, was never one to be walked on._

_She slaps him, shuts him up with a pointed look of a frown and pinched eyebrows - it cows Jesse, sends him into the corner of the room. He’s grieving but unsure how to process it, the feeling of loss is like the feeling of someone taking away a possession, he’s so angry. She doesn’t deserve his misplaced ire._

_Ma waits patiently for him to stop shaking and approaches, reaching for him. He flinches so she begins humming soothingly and makes him stand. She guides him to the table, motions for him to hop up, and doctors his hand._

_She’s not silent out of cruelty, but out of strength. Not one to rat on her husband, a rival gang had made sure that if she wanted to be silent, she’d be silent forever. She’s seen it all, the death of her loved ones, her own sons even, and still she takes care of anyone under the name of the Deadlock Rebels - Jesse flushes bright red as he recalls the spiteful things he spit at her._

_“I killed him…” He murmurs, words falling with their weight. He can trust her not to tell a soul how soft he is inside, she’ll protect him just like she protects everyone else. As long as it isn’t a liability to the gang, his secrets will stay safe, locked away on her missing tongue._

_Ma presses a gentle hand to his cheek, fingers rough from her work, and brings a cool wet cloth to his swollen eye._

_“Why did it hit him? He didn’t-” How could he explain it? Deadeye was fresh to him, used in moments of panic and desperate need. He’d had friends in the midst before, but it never hit them. Hell, Leslie had been in his sights before, a bait dangled before enemies who thought they could get the jump on a small kid._

_He leans into the soft shoulder of Ma Deadlock and weeps quietly. His best friend, gone, by his hand and the strange hellfire in his eye._

_That night, when the specters come and bellow long into the morning, he keeps waiting for Leslie to show up, but he doesn’t._

_Years down the road, he never comes and Jesse never gets to say goodbye._

-

Tears gather at the corners of his eyes as he recounts his story, his heart twisting.

Rough hands hold his cheeks, thumbs brushing under his eyes and chasing away the tears  before they spill too far. Dark eyes watch Jesse carefully, prepared to give him anything he needs.

He’s sitting on the counter with Hanzo beside him, standing.

“Did you love him?”

Jesse nods, a small movement but it shakes the world. “I reckon I did- we were gonna tear up the world together. I was gonna be his best man at his wedding, be the godfather to his hellions. He was gonna… he was gonna make sure whatever man I picked in my life treated me right.”

Hanzo pets him, sifts fingers through his brown hair and listens to him ramble on about a life he once imagined with Leslie. They’d own a ranch once they left Deadlock, two houses on a plot of land. Cattle and horses and so many kids. Adopted from all over, taken in and given love and affection until they were drowning in it.

“Les woulda liked you, Hanzo.” He says suddenly, looking up.

Electric blue flashes before him, a spark of adoration.

Jesse can’t help but grab his face and kiss him, chaste by comparison to all they’ve done, but brimming with feeling. His hands shake and he’s sure he pulls too hard, leaving small scratches on a pale cheek in harsh pink lines.

Hanzo holds him all the same, slots between his legs and folds him into his arms. He soothes the gunslinger with gentle shushing noises like waves cresting and falling against a beach.

The understanding and acceptance between the both of them comforts him more than he could ever describe. A stage of regret and unfortunate scenes - taking a life so near and dear is never an easy thing to deal with. His sins will always leave scars that linger even when the memories fade to dust.

-

The table creaks beneath their combined weight, threatening to give after the abuse of two writhing men atop it. Too sated to move, they rest on their backs, Hanzo’s head pillowed on the gunslinger’s chest and fingers intertwined with metal digits.

“Stars.” Hanzo offers, hooking a leg over Jesse’s.

The scales that brush against him tickles, drawing forth a chuckle as he mulls over the word. He thinks of empty evenings, just him and the night sky to call home. When he was younger, he spent many nights outdoors, the patterns of light smattered across the sky beginning to repeat themselves in time. “Cycles.” The stars were always there - when a chapter ended and a new one began.

The dragon gives him a puzzled look but asks nothing. The silence is part of the game. In turn, each offers a word and the other responds with an associated one, no questions unless it was simply a term that was unknown.

“Water.”

“Watatsumi.” At Jesse’s hum of curiosity, Hanzo smiles and tightens the weaving of their fingers. “Ocean god. Fire.”

The sharpshooter doesn’t even take a second. “Xiuhtecuhtli.” The word rolls from his tongue easily - naturally. “Lord of Fire. Life after death. Food during famine.” He effectively loses their game, but Hanzo urges him to continue with pressing his lips against the back of his metal hand. The gesture is sweet. “Warmth in the cold. Ma always had carvings of him around the house, both as a man and a spirit.” Jesse feels warmth in how Hanzo twists his head to gaze at him, wrapped up in his words, hanging onto every syllable. “Even when her husband tried to toss ‘em out, she kept bringin’ more around.”

Hanzo rolls completely, dragging their connected hands to Jesse’s chest. It’s an awkward position, with his arm nearly wrapped around Hanzo’s neck, but the archer seems content. “Your mother enjoyed such an old culture?”

“Sure did. Tried to teach me all she could ‘bout it when the bastard wasn’t lookin’.”

“Why did she stay with him?”

Jesse half shrugs with a noncommittal grunt. “Can’t say. I left ‘fore I was old enough to know that sometimes people do real wicked things to trap others.”

Hanzo’s face darkens, but before Jesse can ask about it, the dragon wiggles from the cowboy’s hold and straddles him, swooping in for a bruising kiss to prevent any words from escaping the gunslinger. “Sex.” He says during a breath, returning to their game and grinding against Jesse, bringing them both to life.

“Trust.” He gasps into small space between them. “Bed.”

They collide, Hanzo tries to make good on his promise to ride Jesse for hours, but it doesn’t last as long as they’d like. Desperation drags them into each other, harsh bites and nails rake over the dragon’s hips. There’s no heat of anger behind the inflictions, but rather an all consuming desire to be closer. To maybe, for a second, become one.

“Nest.” Hanzo responds somewhere in the middle of their frenzy. He’s guided into each thrust with Jesse’s steady hands, leans across the cowboy’s body and holds on as the end draws near for the both of them. “Hanzo.”

“Lover.” The cowboy grunts instantly, hips stuttering as they fall together. “Jesse.”

Minutes stretch long before either of them move, and it’s the archer who manages to work up the strength to move first. He slips off of Jesse but stays on top of him, reaching down to cup a scruffy chin and drag the gunslinger into a sweetened kiss. “Mate.”

-

It’s a week and a half into their stay when Hanzo finally goes out to purchase more groceries with cash stashed in the cabin. Their home. The shared space where he felt safe, where he felt like he was worth something, warmed Jesse to the core.

But still, he was afraid to be alone. Jesse reasonably knew he couldn’t go with Hanzo - the cowboy’s face was likely everywhere, his bounty increased by Talon and their whole network searching for him. He wasn’t just a rogue member, he was a liability. He knew codes, safehouses, base locations, future projects.

Jesse McCree was a threat to the world’s greatest threat… yet all he wanted to do was wake up with Hanzo every morning.

He was sure the ghosts would come when Hanzo left, just like at the motel. He crawled into the bed and tried to sleep to keep them at bay, but his mind wouldn’t quiet.

It wasn’t a voice keeping him awake, it was an urge. Something in the back of his head told him that the bed and all its plush blankets and pillows were uncomfortable. The lizard part of his brain demanded he search for another to lay. Something else told him to take everything from the bed and build a pile on the floor in the living room, right in front of the window. A nest.

The gunslinger dragged the covers off the bed and pulled more blankets out of a linen closet, creating a soft base and using pillows for a gentle incline. It wasn’t a masterpiece, and there was no animal in the kingdom that he was putting to shame with his craftsmanship, but he fit within it and there was room too for the archer when he returned.

Shedding his clothes, Jesse curled up in it, soaking in the sun that streamed through the window and warmed the nest. It was beyond any comfort he’d felt in a long while and it quieted his mind enough to allow for sleep.

He wasn’t awake when Hanzo returned, and didn’t budge when the dragon shuffled in and called his name.

When he did wake, he was pleasantly warm with the dragon wrapped behind him, holding Jesse with grasping claws and thick coils wrapping around him. There was no where he could think of, where he felt happier. The last few rays of sunlight cast them in an orange and pink hue, turning Hanzo’s scales a cascading wave of purple and teal. It was perfect, quiet, safe and exactly what Jesse had been craving for long years - an itch of being wanted finally scratched to completion by rough scales.

“Hey,” He croaked, voice rough from sleep.

“Hello,” The dragon replied in stereo, purring and nosing into the back of the cowboy’s neck. “I hope I did not wake you.”

“Naw,” He rubs his eyes, feelings the dragons form together into a man. He threads his fingers with Hanzo’s, pulling the connected arm tightly around him.

“Did you build this?” Adoration drips from the archer’s voice.

Jesse nods and finds his face tipped back awkwardly into a kiss.

“I love it.”

Releasing the cowboy’s chin, Hanzo pulls him closer, wraps more firmly around him and tangles their legs together. They lay there for another hour, hands softly trailing up each other’s arms, fleeting touches that seek to remember the contours they trace. Scales, hair, scars.

Hanzo’s hands stop at the remnants of a tattoo, warped within the myriad of scars above his prosthetic. Feathers made of fire flick up along his flesh, as though the cybernetic is a molting pheonix, his arm reborn.

“Jesse…” Hanzo’s pause in his words is different than any time before. Those had been with meaning and intent, this one quietly whispers his insecurities so the cowboy grabs his hand and gives it a light squeeze, reassuring. “Will you stay with me?”

The gunslinger rolls over, faces the dragon and draws a frown at the way Hanzo seems to shy away from him. “Of course-”

“-Here. Forever.”

It clicks. Jesse’s allowed to have something - a new concept in his tumultuous life. The reason why Hanzo doesn’t find his desire overwhelming, doesn’t see anything strange with the sudden attachment, is because the dragon is feeling the same. The archer wants, and he’s allowed to have. He’s just as attached to Jesse.

“I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else but here, darlin’.”

-

_The gunslinger finds himself staring down a bloodstained alley. He’s never seen Reyes scream so furiously, crouched over a body-- no. The mark of the shimada gumi is slashed cleanly in two on the victim’s back._

_Jesse blinks and the body transforms into a coiling mass of shining green, cut to ribbons and stained red in his commander’s arms. A serpent, or an actual dragon he can’t tell. The only way he see that they’re alive is by the way the tail limply twitches and brushes against Reyes’ hand- the world’s loudest cry for help in the smallest gesture Jesse’s ever seen._

_He worries the inside of his cheek; they won’t make it, he knows._

_Jesse tips his hat over his eyes and slips away without a trace, off to chase a man lost to the wind._

_“Damnit, I need evac- now! Some shitty back alley, Hanamura.” He hears Reyes down the street before he hears him in his communicator._

_‘_ I’m unable to help him here. _’ A quiet voice, like bells on a sunday afternoon._

_“Track me! I damn well know you can. I- We can’t lose this kid. We can’t---”_

_The sound is drowned out too soon, pushing into the background so he can focus. He’s not sure how long he walks, following the guilty man, but it surprises Jesse more than it ought to when he finds that the stranger hadn’t gotten very far after their run-in. He can still hear Reyes yelling._

_‘_ His fever is too high- I have the proper tools in the new facility. _’_

_“We can’t lose this kid!”_

_‘_ You cannot do that! He is a wanted man! _’ A furious voice like rolling thunder clouds in a storm._

_He finds the fleeing kid - around his own age, if he has to take a guess - in the shadows of another alleyway, behind an old AC unit and a medley of crinkled posters. He’s crouched low and staring into space._

_He knows that look well._

_‘_ All the more reason to hand him over. _’ The church bell voice sounds solemn about the situation._

_Wordlessly, he pops a squat by the stranger, riding out the storm of silence with him. Jesse knows sometimes words aren’t wanted, but someone to hang on to if you feel yourself falling is a nice comfort, even if it’s never used._

_Twenty minutes pass, a short period in the gunslinger’s opinion, and finally the stranger speaks._

_“Have you ever regretted something so much… but know you would not change it?”_

_The question surprises Jesse, but he nods in agreement. “Sure do. I think everyone’s got somethin’ like that on their shoulders.” Something tugs at his pants, fingers digging sharp into the fabric and pulling tight. He doesn’t need to look down to see the other holding onto him with an iron grip. “You do what you gotta to survive, right?”_

_The responding ‘right’ is small._

_Jesse looks down the alley and spies a puddle of fresh vomit, red. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that whatever this man had to do with the green dragon, it shook him enough._

_“Come on,” He stands up. “You gotta be starvin’.”_

_He’s surprised that the stranger comes along with him so easily, follows his lead to a small ramen shop where he greets the store owner in their native language. His proper structure and politeness must shock the stranger just as much because he stares at Jesse with wary eyes, glinting blue._

_“_ Are you here to kill me? _” He asks in crisp Japanese. It echoes in stereo, one voice to each ear. The stranger’s testing how much Jesse understands._

_The gunslinger responds with a chuckle and English. “Darlin’, I don’t even know you.” But he has an inkling. They weren’t sniffing around the outskirts of Hanamura for nothing, and the body of one of the sons didn’t just slice itself up._

_The silence they eat in is comfortable, the sound of the other late night patrons is enough to fill the space._

_When Jesse reaches into his shirt pocket, the stranger flinches. “Easy, just grabbin’ a smoke. It helps with the shakes.” He looks down to where the other’s hands are trembling. His fingers grasp emptiness and he hisses to himself, “Aw hell,” standing and patting down his pockets frantically. He knows his cigars are there somewhere._

_There’s a scratch, feeling something blue dig into his side, “Take care,” and the ghost of claws steal his prize._

_Glancing back up, he finds himself alone, the space devoid of the second dragon. He’d fled._

-

Jesse feels warm, too warm, with heavy limbs made of stone and a burning in his eyes that’s eerily similar to the beginnings of a Deadeye shot. He’s in and out of sleep, curled within the nest he’d fashioned- sometimes Hanzo is there with him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead and sometimes he’s prowling around, angry at the world.

This time, when Jesse wakes from a memory-like dream, he’s holding the cowboy’s head in his lap, tense with thought. The dragon doesn’t even seem to notice when Jesse wakes and stirs, not until a metal hand threads fingers with his own.

He blinks down at Jesse, surprise morphing into worried adoration, a look the gunslinger hopes will never fade. He’s wanted, he’s cared for- it means so much to him. “I remember…” He croaks, giving a half smile. He’s so tired, everything feels sluggish and muddy around him. The only thing sharp is the sensation of Hanzo’s skin against his own. “We had ramen together.”

Hanzo looks guilty, remembering the events of and leading up to that night.

The cowboy drags the archer’s knuckles against his cheeks. “I went back there once, wasn’t sure why… I musta been lookin’ for you.” He remembers the silence, the comfort found in it when in the presence of the dragon.

The archer cracks, grimaces and falls upon Jesse with a flurry of small kisses across his face. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” He repeats over and over. Jesse thinks that he still frets over that night and the murder of his brother, the guilt weighing heavily.

“Don’t be sorry, we all got shit we wish we hadn’t done.” He tucks into the dragon’s embrace, closes his burning eyes and sighs. He feels like shit, but he has faith that Hanzo will hold him through it.

-

The sharpshooter is woken up by shouting, a few keywords he remembers from his day in back in Blackwatch filtering through. It’s Japanese, not that it surprises him, after all one of the voices belongs to Hanzo.

The other voice makes his blood run cold in his overheated body, a ghost of a blade biting into his side. Jesse whines, tucks away into the too warm blankets, shielding himself. He prays that Hanzo is able to prevent the cyborg from figuring out that the cowboy is here, their last encounter didn’t end on friendly terms.

Their last battle made it abundantly clear to Jesse, the devil in Talon hunting down Overwatch agents from all over, that a direct approach to Genji was unwise.

“Brother, he needs aid and you know it. Let Angela help him.” Genji switches to English.

“I will not hand him over to Overwatch.” He can hear the fury in Hanzo’s voice.

“You’re not handing him over,” It’s Angela, voice chiming sweetly, like a bell, as she tries to keep the dragon from snapping. “He needs help, and I can provide that in their facility.”

“ _I just freed him, I cannot cage him again. Do not make me do that to him._ ” Hanzo pleads in Japanese, his words splitting into two voices at the end.

“ _You must, Hanzo. It is your mission._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aki, you beautiful sinner. <3 Big smooches your way as usual!  
> Many thanks to the folks on the discord servers for giving me a lot of feedback for this fic and its summary. And thanks to the folks who gave me critiques on my writing!
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	8. Stallion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Only Happy Endings!

Fire, white hot and agonizing, jolts Jesse awake. His eyes snap open to focus on a cold white operating light backdropped by a featureless ceiling and dread fills his gut. A dream. It was all a dream and here he is, caught while trying to flee Talon.

He’s in the Pen.

Jesse shuts his eyes, tries to slip  back into those happy dreams. He tries to curl up with dragons in a nest, into arms that hold him so close, and into words that keep his ghosts at bay. For just one moment longer, he wants to be at the cabin Hanzo promised him.

There’s a particular sense of loss that courses through him, opening him up wide and scooping out whatever remains inside- it leaves him empty. His fantasy was merely that. A fantasy. And it came crashing down, breaking open the shell of the reality he’s in.

What a fool he’d been to think that dragons were _real_. They were just about as tangible as his chances of escaping from Talon’s clutches had been. Dreamt up by the stories his mama used to tell him and cast to a stranger that’s as good as dead.

Laying on the slab, the hole that the loss digs out of him grows bigger, plucking at heart strings because for a moment he almost felt like something good was coming his way. A bright beacon in the drudges of his decisions and muddy paths. Something that shimmered brilliantly and illuminated his days.

He feels stiff and sore, blood rushing through his ears with every pulse of his heart as he comes to. Jesse wonders how they’ll go about dealing with him: total reconditioning, a sleeper unit, or maybe entertaining straight up death.

“His heart rate is picking up, Angela.” A gruff voice says.

“What? Nonsense, he should be out. There’s enough sedative in his system to keep him down for days.” Blonde hair and a thin, worried set of lips come into focus, looking down into his eyes. “McCree?”

Jesse grunts, tries to move his body again and sparks of pain shoot up his right leg. His eyes water and he tries to sit up to see what’s going wrong with the limb. “What- where?” He’s disoriented, left in a haze from whatever sedative he’d been pumped full of.

Hands push at his shoulders, not the grimy paws of a grunt, but the slender hands of an angel. “Lay back down, McCree. You will only hurt yourself further.” The doctor admonishes and he can’t tell if it’s truly Angela Zeigler trying to weigh him down, or if his mind is trying to cope with the horrible situation to come by putting a gentle face on his would-be executioner.

“My leg.” He groans, trying valiantly to sit up once more.

Jesse finds his flesh wrist bound to the table, but not his prosthetic one, so he’s able to swing up into a half-lean. The doctor’s insistent pleas for him to lay down go in one ear and out the other, drowned by the heavy thudding of his heart as he looks at the damage wrought to his body.

His prosthetics are gone. His arm is removed from its couplings, leaving behind small metal surfaces and open wires that feel more like frayed nerve endings. The air is too sharp against it, even the gentle brush of the doctor’s coat against the endings light up receptors that scream ‘ _too much_ ’.

But his knee is potentially the worst thing he’s ever seen.

In all the years he’s had the damn thing, he’d never sat down to look at the monstrosity. Instead of keeping the knee replacement internal, they’d scooped out his whole knee, leaving an empty cavity behind and filling it with the metal contraption used to mimic the joint. Held in place by a cover and protected a second time by the guard he wore outside his pants, he had no idea what unnatural work lay inside.

There were direct connections to what was left of his bones, an empty hollow space when the joint was removed, and once again wires left exposed like nerves outside his body. Instead of overstimulation, however, it was plain and simple agony.

The doctor manages to shove him back into a laying position and sticks a needle into his arm. Whatever drugs she puts into, it stems the rising panic but does not chase the thought away.

He can’t run if he doesn’t have a knee.

-

When Jesse wakes again, everything is different - the room is quiet,only illuminated by a muted blue glow, and while still aching, he can move his legs again. Although, if he’s completely honest, trying to move his right leg doesn’t go so well and shoots a jolt of pain up his spine that has him whimpering.

Instantly, hands are soothing on his face and in his hair and that blue glow burns a little brighter, a little closer.

“Jesse,”

The voice makes him freeze. Not a dream. The realization twists his stomach and makes his blood run cold. It brings back a rush of thoughts that had been muddled by whatever they drugged him with and the remnants of a fever.

Oh, how he wishes it was a dream. At least then in his darkest hours he could fall back into a world where everything was okay inside a nest bathed in the sunlight. He could deal with the loss better, knowing that he could just imagine the space once more and feel safer, and wanted..

Jesse was still wanted - but not in the way he’d expected.

He’d been used. All that transpired in that cabin had been a lie, carefully constructed to lure him in and tie him down with pretty words and promises. It makes it worse, because there’s no cure, no dream sweet enough to make him forget and fill the hole the dragon’s trick had caused. He’d been freed of his cage, only to find himself in another.

 _Danger, danger!_ His brain had screamed, over and over and he ignored it every time to trail marks across pale skin and dig his nails into bioluminescent scales. Drowning in the storm that was the dragon, he couldn’t hear his own instincts over the sound of thunder.

Wrenching away from Hanzo, he shoves at the dragon. “Get off’a me.” He snarls lowly, brows tightening together and frown wrenching across his lips.

Hanzo has the gall to look affronted, surprised at the reaction to his touch. “What is-”

“Get out!”

The dragon stills at his shout, eyes darting around the room before resting on his lap. “I am sorry. This was the only place Angela could help you.”

Jesse shoves at him again, more effectively pushing Hanzo’s solid form away, his face flushing red. He’s angry because he’d let himself fall. He’s embarrassed that anyone here would know exactly how easy it was to seduce the lonely cowboy and slide between his legs. Call him perfect and promise him safety and he’s yours for the taking. “I don’t wanna see you, Shimada.” He spits. “You finished yer mission, now get the fuck out.”

The archer’s eyes go wide, dread striking across his features, unmasked and open.

He feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the reaction, letting the dragon know that Jesse is all too aware of his ruse. He brings it to light and lets the serpent, the snake in the grass, know he’s been caught. “I know you have my file- but I bet it don’t mention I understand a decent amount of Japanese.” He barks out a laugh. “ _It is your mission._ ” He parrots the phrase uttered in the cabin, accent mocking and exaggerated.

“Jesse, I-”

“No.” He hurts, his chest burns and his heart feels like it’s on fire. “That’s McCree to you.” Jesse sits up, pulling his knee towards himself and away from the dragon. “Now get out before I start screamin’ and kickin’ up a fuss.”

“It was not-”

He doesn’t let Hanzo get a word in. He knows that the right words will draw him back in, and Jesse can’t handle battling that temptation while he’s torn wide open. “But it was.” He drags a hand up his face. “I know exactly who I am, Shimada. I know exactly what kinda ops you were running-” Blunt nails sink into his face. “I used to run ‘em myself.” A honey pot scam. Draw the target in, let them see your appeal, and then cuff their wrists to the post in the bedroom while they’re enthralled. “I don’t wanna see you near me again.”

Hanzo stands quietly, looks for all the world as battered as Jesse feels, but the cowboy doesn’t show a lick of sympathy.

“Door’s right there.” He says, “Get.”

The dragon obeys, sets his jaw and casts a forlorn look over his shoulder as he reaches the door.

Jesse is sure to return it with a scathing glare and when the door shuts behind him, the gunslinger sinks back down. He doesn’t cry, but he lays there open and broken and wishing for all the world that the sheets would open up and swallow him whole.

His leg burns from pain, he’s down one arm, and he’s angry at himself because a part of him still wants wants to scream and beg for Hanzo to come back and hold him. But he listens to his lizard brain this time.

_Danger, danger!_

-

It’s his own screams that wake him, not from his nightmares, but from speakers that cover the sound with a light layer of static.

Jesse’s been moved into a cage, plexiglass walls not unlike the one Hanzo had been placed in at the Talon hideout. His leg still aches horribly and he has trouble moving it, but at least he’s uncuffed.

He twists, letting out a soft hiss when the muscles of his leg jump and pull in protest, dead weight - not enough support for movement without a joint. The screen is facing away from him, but he can see the horror clearly written on Angela’s face and hear the bone-chilling voice that can only belong to Boss while he’s working.

‘ _I’ll ask again, Mister McCree. Will you accept our formal invitation into Talon?_ ’

The words bring a flood of memories, rising with the bile in his throat. A hammer struck too many times, too little left to salvage, and a prosthetic that reminds him of who he works for.

‘ _I ain’t workin’ for no-_ ’ his own voice, haggard but strong, so stubborn and sure of himself, falters with another scream. He can hear the sickening crunch as his knee gives way.

‘ _We’re asking nicely. I could take your other knee, or your mind, or- perhaps…’_ Boss’s voice trails off with a sickening chortle. If Jesse closes his eyes he can see the way Boss saunters as he turns to face him down. _‘What about those little friends of yours from Overwatch? We keep tabs on them, you know? Tracer has quite the sightseeing itinerary created, and - oh you will be delighted to hear this - Angela’s research clinic is doing quite well._ ’

Jesse fists at nothing, nails cresting red into the meat of his palm. Fear, or guilt- he’s not sure which, seize his throat and burns behind his eyes.

‘ _Don’t- ‘_ He breaks. _‘Don’t touch ‘em, please._ ’

‘ _I’ll join._ ’

A hum, almost a tune, just as horrifying then as it is to hear it through the speakers. ‘ _I knew you’d see things our way._ ’ He remembers the sinister smile, a cat who’d caught the canary. ‘ _And we won’t touch them, I promise you that.’_

‘ _Because you will._ ’

“Turn it off.”

Mercy jumps at his voice, scrambles to pause the video and silence the anguished sobs that spew from the speakers. She flushes bright red, ashamed to have been absorbed in his hiring session. “I’m sorry.” She says quickly.

Jesse frowns. “Where did you get that?” How much info did Overwatch have on him? Was this the reason a mole was snooping around Talon? Was digging up dirt on him the reason Widowmaker was under suspicion? How long have they known? So many questions wrench at his gut and he knows he’s likely to get answers to none of them.

He’s in a cell, a canary still caught, prisoner of war. He’s whatever they decide to use him for - intel, a bargaining chip, hell, even mulch in the flower bed. There’s little he can do.

“Oh, Jesse,” Her gaze falls to his knee, and the pity in her eyes makes him furious. “You should tell them- they’ll forgive you if they know what-”

“No.” He gruffs, “I don’t need their sympathy,” Not after what he’d done. It didn’t matter that his hand had been forced, instead of biting the bullet so their lives can last a little bit longer he hunted them all. There’s no forgiving that. “And don’t you dare tell anyone.”

Once upon a time he considered a possibility - getting a message to some former member of Overwatch, letting them know that he was being used and surviving only by tracking them down one by one. Maybe he would have been captured sooner, plucked from the grasp of Talon. But he never reached out, and by the time he did he was drowned in what Talon wanted him to be.

A killer, the devil that Overwatch feared in the night. He noticed a pattern after the first few years, that all of the targets he had tabs on refused to settle in the south of North America. He still wonders if even the slightest southern twang made them jump in their own skin, sure that the hunter was at their back.

He had many opportunities to leave, to run and hide away. But he stayed with Talon because in all reality, he didn’t know where else to go. His hopes were quashed by a sickening voice telling him he was just another tool passed along the chain. That no one would want him back even if he fled.

Pursing her lips, Jesse can see her struggle with the urge to argue. Like she knows better. She doesn’t, he’s sure of it. She can’t know how much of himself he buried to survive, how bitter and angry it’s made him. She can’t know how raw he feels, sores and open wounds left from memories of a cabin rotting against his skin.

She doesn’t know what he’s done to survive.

“We’re working on better prosthetics for you.” Angela says, changing the subject and turning away. “Whatever they put in you… I am surprised you’re still standing. _Butchers_.” She hisses.

“They were fine.” He challenges.

“They were poorly made with little care for long term damage. It will take a few weeks to properly make something for your socket- until then, we’ll give you a gel insert.”

Jesse huffs and turns away from her. She doesn’t know anything. She can’t.

-

True to her word, within a week he’s given a gel insert for his knee. It’s no joint, leaves his leg stiff and causes him pain, but at least he can walk if he doesn’t go too fast or try any fancy footwork.

He’s let loose, but not exactly free.

Quickly, Jesse is ushered into a meeting room where there are familiar faces waiting for him but not happy to see him. Winston and Soldier: 76, the late Jack Morrison’s new face, stand at the head of the large table. To their sides are Torbjorn, Reinhardt, and Ana risen from the grave. He can’t bare to look at half of their faces, and swears he feels Ana’s piercing gaze dig into him from where he enters. He feels like a kid at a parent-teacher conference meeting, about to be told how bad he’s been and a system put in place to keep him in line.

“Sit.” Soldier commands, nodding to the chair at the other end. The meeting room lights are dimmed, except for one that blanches the table white and shrouds him in a convicting light. They all stare him down, with varying levels of disappointment and disgust. “Well, where do we fucking begin, McCree? Why should we even let you live after you’ve hunted these people for years?”

“I made the effort to leave-”

“After we sent an agent after you.”

Jesse winces, his face burning and he snaps his jaw shut. It’s true. Without Hanzo’s ploy, Jesse would still be at Talon, hiding within them and still tracking down Overwatch.

“The decision was made to lock you up for good, maximum security-”

The cowboy wilts, feels dread course through him. He won’t live long there, lord knows he’s made plenty of enemies.

“-but at the urging of some of our agents, you are being given a chance. You get one chance - either work for Overwatch or rot in prison, McCree.”

Suddenly, he’s seventeen again with Reyes towering over him. Time ceases to exist. It’s just him, cuffed to a chair and his would-be commander staring him down in a pitch black room with a single light overhead. The man is offering him a deal, a way out and he’s a fool to think about denying it. Deadlock has done so much for him, but he owes it to Leslie to get out. He isn’t lucky enough to get a second chance.

These people he once admired, who fondly looked upon him as he put his ugly past behind him, now look at him like the shit they accidentally stepped in on the way to work. These same people are offering him a second chance.

Blackwatch or jail. Overwatch or jail.

He’d be a fool to even entertain the idea of denying them.

Words, just a few days ago played on a monitor in the medbay. Words, so many years ago said in fear. Words, over a decade ago said for redemption.

It’s automatic. Those same words he utters to survive, to keep going and maybe find some peace. To find safety and comfort somewhere in this world that chews him up and spits him out.

“I’ll join.”

-

He’s lonely. Even surrounded by the members of Overwatch, slowly growing, there is emptiness all around Jesse.

There’s no blame to be placed except perhaps upon his own shoulders. They want as little to do with him as possible. He’s their hunter, the creature that dogged their heels while they tried to build their lives after Overwatch. As it stands, Jesse is just a parasite.

The older members don’t even look in his direction, scorning him and his choices, or simply steering clear of him altogether. Mercy casts him pitying glances, silently begging him to tell them about his ultimatum, to which he always responds with a nasty scowl - surely garnering no more favor for his attitude toward her.

Some agents were out on missions, and the few that remained avoided him. Young things with wide eyes, no doubt recalling tales of him from word of mouth and the news. He was infamous, notorious, and had been that way since the tender age of fifteen.

The posters for Deadlock bounties were different from his own, a kid with a deadly aim was branded a wanted man - dead or alive.

Grabbing his food, he takes a seat at an empty table far from everyone else. It’s always the same, alone with furrowed looks tossed his way. Sometimes he hears their whispers, the names.

They’re not cruel, they’re good people he once knew. It’s him, the betrayer.

But that day, it’s different because Hanzo walks in after having been away or hiding, Jesse doesn’t care which, and he stares at Jesse. There’s hurt and surprise and a flash of blue in those eyes, like he was hoping to keep Jesse locked away.

He looks fine, which irks the gunslinger. He looks well put together and like the past month hasn’t happened. His clothes are the same as the ones he’d been put in the cabin with and his hair is tied up with another gold ribbon. It makes Jesse livid to realize he still finds the traitorous serpent attractive.

The cowboy grabs for his drink and chugs it down, drowning the wounds that criss cross his heart. He slams the cup a bit too hard on the table, drawing the attention of the room.

They take notice of Hanzo’s gaze, of the way Jesse looks like a kicked dog who’s desperate for affection but afraid of the boot if he goes too close. He can see them connecting the dots. He knows they’ll say later that they had no idea how easy it was to get Jesse to abandon his position at Talon - beautiful eyes and a deadly wit was all it took.

He breaks, stands up none too gently and slams his open palm on the tabletop. “The fuck are y’all lookin’ at?” He snarls openly, like a coyote defending itself.

A few of them have the good grace to turn away and ignore him, but the rest linger and narrow their eyes at him. Passing judgment.

“Go ahead, laugh at the idiot.” Jesse taunts. “Laugh at the bastard who kept y’all _alive_.” The words spill and he can’t stop it, not when they look at him with doubt because alive is very much different from the dead members they had to bury. “I had plenty of opportunities to take y’all out- could of put a bullet through yer skull, Reinhardt, while you were busy dealin’ with those gang members in northern germany. You know the one..”

The large man’s companions grow angrier and Reinhardt shifts uncomfortably, unnerved by the notion that Jesse could have done such a thing - or perhaps by the simple fact that Jesse was there and he had no idea.

“I spent about a week at Genji’s place in Nepal, right there and cozy and I coulda taken him out.” He doesn’t mention that he tried a year later and got a gaping wound in his side for his troubles. “But I co- I didn’t- I gave y’all chances to run and hide!”

His voice raises and he takes pride in the way their eyes go wide, afraid of him still. The tired dog who’s fed up with the abuse.

The feelings rush over him. Standing behind Reinhardt and silently begging the giant to notice him, to turn around and confront him. Sitting behind a pillar in Nepal and praying Genji would hear his spurs and stop him from going back to Talon.

“It took y’all _years_ to even think about gettin’ me.”

He remembers the mission completed within days to rescue Amélie, hoping to get to her before anything happened to her. But they just let him go, let him adapt and become a monster to survive.

They finally look uneasy and there’s Angela, her eyes watching him closely, wondering why he won’t say what they’re all missing, that one little piece she swore to keep away.

“Fuck y’all.” He seethes when he’s met with thick silence, and limps out of the room as fast as he can manage.

He makes it out the automatic doors and down the hall before his leg seizes- his pace too fast for his prosthetic to handle the shock without a joint. It burns, pulls at the muscles up and down the limb and he leans against the wall to wait it out.

Jesse slides down when it doesn’t pass, bites into the back of his hand when the strain becomes too great.

Footsteps, light and quick, echo closer and he’s prepared to bare his teeth and scare off whoever comes around that corner - he doesn’t want to be seen like this.

It’s one of the newer agents, Hana, as he remembers hearing.

He turns his gaze to the wall across from him, hoping she’ll see him and turn tail, ignore the man who’s killed so many would-be comrades. Scurry back and tell the others how pathetic he looks on the ground, rubbing at his leg and at the mercy of his ruined joint..

Instead, he feels a small boot toe at his hip, careful to avoid his leg as he kneads the meat of his thigh.

“Hey,”

Jesse ignores her, hopes she’ll go away and leave him to wallow in misery.

“Do you wanna get off your ass?”

His attention snaps to her, “Fuck off.”

She smiles like an imp at him, a challenge flickering in her eyes. She crouches beside him, arms resting on her knees and her face getting close. “You could use a shave.” She says, ignoring his furious look.

He wants her away, he doesn’t want anyone close to him. Jesse doesn’t want to wind up hurt and pulled open again.

Hana tugs at his hands and stands up, not stopping until he’s slowly rising as well. “Come on,” She loops his arm around her shoulders.

Jesse tries his damnedest not to lean on her, to limp his way into following her, but after the second step, his leg freezes up with a flash of pain and he takes her offer, leans into her with every other step. He worries of what she thinks of him, worries he might crush her with his weight, but she carries on with him and doesn’t make a peep.

She leads him to what he can only assume is her quarters - game tech everywhere and a large desk set up like a command center. He doesn’t get the chance to see much before Hana’s pulling him into the small bathroom attached and sitting him on the closed toilet lid.

He looks down to find a pink, plush cover. He puts his hand on the soft material and gives the smallest smile he can muster. It’s something small that breaks through the dreadful fog in his mind, and the bright, innocuous cover feels good under his calloused fingers.

“So you can smile!” The young woman crows before rifling through a cabinet.

Jesse’s smile disappears, replaced with a pursing of his lips. He’s still unsure of what she wants, of what her goal is. Everyone has a goal - even Hanzo, who’d appeared to only give everything to Jesse - wanted him captive.

Hana pulls out a small pack, the material is dark navy, grungy and old. It seems so out of place compared to the vibrant colors around them. She puts her hands on it and stills, takes a breath to steady herself before unzipping it.

The way she handles the pack is reverent, as though it’s the most delicate thing in the world and one hair out of place could ruin it. It suddenly makes Jesse itch to be away from it, before it becomes one more thing he destroys with his presence.

“My dad fought for my country.” She says once she has it unzipped. “I was very young, didn’t get to know him much.” She delicately plucks her fingers through the pack, pulling out things one by one as she speaks- first comes a bowl. “An injury sent him back home for good.” A metal canister clinks onto the sink counter and she takes a moment to look at him with a smile, strained as it may be. “My dad was missing an arm too.”

Jesse tucks into himself, tries to shield the view of his missing arm with his body.

“He was still strong, but maybe too much?” She pulls out a towel, folds it precisely and sets it down. “He refused to use a prosthetic. Told us that he didn’t want to be anything like those machines he fought.” She pulls out a brush next, bristles pointed upward in a tuft. “Any chance he got to _not_ use a machine, he took comfort in. It was hard, I mean, Korea has _a lot_ of tech.”

Hana makes a satisfied noise and pulls out a razor blade, flips it open and presses her finger delicately along it’s edge. Unsatisfied with its sharpness, she unravels a sharpening band and methodically hones the blade. She does it with finesse, with the actions of someone who has done it many times.

“He gave up electric razors, but it was hard for him to shave himself with one arm.” She continues. “I didn’t know him that well, but I wanted to so I learned how to do it - he got his face shaved and I was given quality time with him... finally.” She tests the edge again; satisfied, she tucks the band away and set the blade on the towel. “In the end, I was closer to my father than anyone else in my family.”

She sprays some of the canister into the bowl and laughs to herself. “It’s not the same as old fashioned stuff, but I made due with what I could find.” Hana uses the brush to work the shaving cream until it was whipped in the bowl. With everything prepared, she approaches, standing in front of him and waiting for his attention.

Jesse tries to avoid it. Tries to keep from letting her, or anyone, see the ache he has. He’s lonely but he wants to be left alone. She’s not asking anything of him for this favor, but how long until she calls to collect? What will she want? His gut roils in his uncertainty.

“McCree,” She calls gently, putting one hand on the outside of his shoulder. It’s not too close to his neck, but not so far down that he can’t see where she touches. He knows this - Ma Deadlock did this. It’s the touch of someone who knows what bloodshed and gunfire does to a person.

Her dad was in a war, Hana knew him better than anyone. She knows how to treat a man with invisible wounds.

“Are you alright if I shave you?” She asks, even after setting everything up. She’s prepared to help him, but also willing to let her efforts of getting everything ready go by the wayside if he says ‘ _no_ ’.

The cowboy looks up at her, finally meeting her gaze and when he doesn’t find pity, he nods. She doesn’t feel sorry for him, she wants to help and he’s willing to take any chance he can get for that. “Not the whole thing,” He adds.

She laughs, sweet and somewhat shrill without being grating. “Of course not!” She grabs an extra towel and lays it across his front and over his shoulders. “You look better with your beard. I can’t imagine a proper cowboy without some scruff.”

The lathered cream is applied in silence - under his neck and on his cheeks - but when she begins to actually shave him, slowly bringing the blade closer just in case he wants to stop, she hums.

Jesse doesn’t know the song one bit, but he doesn’t have to. It’s a tune of homesickness, the same as when he sings gentle lullabies to himself that he remembers from his mom. Words quietly hushed in the night because if her husband heard, there’d be hell to pay.

He lifts his head when prompted, feels the blade sliding against his throat. She could end him easily, but instead continues humming and working slowly. He doesn’t deserve this kindness from her, not after all he’s done.

“I’ve killed people.” He blurts when she pulls away to wipe the blade.

She regards him with a quirked brow. “They told me. Don’t care.” She puts the razor on his neck again.

“You don’t care?”

Hana jerks away with his words, glaring. “Do you want a knick? Cause that’s how you get one.” She says and when he falls quiet, she returns to work, still just as slow and careful as before. “Sorry, I just don’t want to make you bleed. I’ve got a _spotless_ record.”

She giggles to herself and Jesse’s lips curl at the corners in the beginnings of a smile.

“Anyways, yeah, don’t care. We’ve all killed people. Sure, you’re an asshole,” The smile fades. “But what right do I have to judge you harshly? I didn’t know you. I just know the man right here who’s trusting me enough to shave him. And that can’t be all bad, right?” She pulls away.

“I hope not.”

She flips the razor in her hand and taps his chin with the handle. “I know not.” She puts the blade down and grabs the towel, wetting it in the sink.

“Why are ya doin’ this?” He finally asks, unable to clarify when she presses the damp towel on his face and scrubs away all of the excess lather.

“Because you look like shit.” Her bluntness is irritating and refreshing. Hana plucks through the bag one last time and pulls out small scissors. He’s quiet while she trims his beard, cutting stray hairs and, while not so much making the whole thing even, just making sure the sides mirror each other. She’s sure to keep his scruffy attitude in his beard. “And I know that when I’m feeling awful, looking better makes me feel better.”

She tugs him up once more, helps him over to the mirror and lets him see himself.

Jesse is no clean cut business man, but he looks a lot younger and more full of life with everything trimmed properly.

“Do you like it?”

He nods, smiling just a little more.

“Good! It’s been a few years since I’ve done it. Glad to see I haven’t lost my touch.” She wiggles her fingers in the mirror over his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

-

He’s taken to sleeping in the medlab. Content with being left alone, but not entirely alone. The pleading looks from Angela have stopped, the pity in her eyes is gone. and she lets him be. The sounds of her typing or tinkering with her research are soothing, a reminder that someone is there if the nightmares come.

Jesse’s seen little of his ghosts, though he suspects that’s because they’re all over the base already. Flesh and blood, real and aside from Hana and Angela, keeping him at bay with glares of contempt.

He tucks into a corner and reads the doctor’s medical journals. Each published piece he puts his hands on is met with a smile from Angela, pleased that he’s engaging in something rather than wallowing. When he decides to ask questions, she answers but doesn’t press him to keep up conversation for longer than he’s comfortable with. He wonders if she’s treating him as a friend or as a patient. He hopes for both.

She wakes him early with a gentle touch to his hand. Another person who has seen the wounds of war and treats him fairly for it. “Jesse,” She says, pulling his attention from the fingers pressed against his palm. “I have good news.”

Angela waits for him to sit up, not lifting a finger to help. He’s thankful for it, his pride getting in the way of letting him want the help. Not when he’s a cornered dog, still fighting out of fear. “What’s up, Doc?”

She smiles at the nickname, always smiles at it. The angel is always sure to let him know when he does things that are good, things that help himself; making a connection with someone enough to call them something other than their name is a step forward. A gentle nudge in healing.

“You prosthetics are finished and I have nothing scheduled for the day so we can get them properly installed.”

Jesse worries his cheek, but Angela is ahead of him.

“Would you like Hana present?”

When he nods, she laughs in assurance and flits off to do just that, leaving him alone to mentally ready himself.

He knows this part, it’ll be painful, connecting live nerves to the prosthetics. Perhaps even more painful than the ones Talon had given him because the doctor will do things right - everything in place, everything hooked up. No shortcuts, no butchering.

The door to the medbay slides open. Hana must have been close by.

Jesse hefts himself off the bed, limping over to greet her… but it’s not the young woman.

Hanzo reels back when he sees the cowboy, clutching a bright red bundle close to his chest. He avoids looking at Jesse as much as possible. “I am…” There’s that hesitation, whispering his fears to the world. “I was looking for Dr. Zeigler so that she could give these to you.”

He lowers the bundle, a pattern of winding gold coming into view along tattered edges. Nestled in its folds is a metal gun, shining and clean. The last time Jesse saw them he was burying them deep in the deserts of New Mexico. “Where did you get those?” He asks, anger flaring. How dare the snake touch them.

The archer holds them out, arms stretched as far from his body as he can get them. “I dug them up. They are yours, are they not?”

Jesse takes inches forward, hesitant to get near the dragon. He’s still hurt, wounded, and trying to quell the part of him that insists this is all a nightmare and he’ll wake up in the nest soon. “They’re… lettin’ me have her back?” He nods towards Peacekeeper, the original. A clean killer and one of the few things that have withstood the test of Deadeye time and time again.

“It has all been cleared. She is yours.”

He can’t grab the items fast enough, putting Peacekeeper down on a medical tray before he swaddles himself in his serape. Clean, free of dirt. He uses it like a shield, and narrows his eyes at Hanzo over the edge of the fabric, his message clear. ‘ _Get_ ’.

Hanzo opens his mouth, as though he means to say something else but thinks again, snapping his jaw shut and backing out of the room.

Jesse buries his face in the worn fabric of the serape, sighing deep into it and drawing comfort out. He’s so focused on it that he fails to hear Angela returning until she’s right beside him.

“I’m glad they finally delivered those.” She says.

“Finally?”

The doctor nods. “They were brought to us last week for clearance to give to you. Though I suppose Mr. Shimada did not want them returned to you covered in dirt.” She throws a hesitant smile his way. “He cleaned them very well, we almost couldn’t tell what they were when he showed them to us.”

Cleaned. Hanzo hadn’t just dug up his most cherished items, he’d presented them so that they might return to Jesse’s hands, and then cleaned them so that he could use them straight away. A sweet gesture.

_A ploy for his forgiveness._

“I got word to Hana, she’s finishing up a level in her game and will be right down. In the meantime, let us get you prepared.”

-

In Jesse’s life, he’s experienced a slew of agony, but he will always attest to the hooking up nerves to high tech prosthetics as being the worst of it all. Fire runs through his body, and not even Hana, bless her heart, pressing rags wrapped around ice to his skin helps shakes the heat. He burns from the pain, sweat beads his brow and his entire body lays tense.

Angela tries her best to get him to relax, doesn’t want him hurting himself, but there’s nothing worse he could do to himself that isn’t being done by the installation.

The arm is bad. The knee is worse.

It’s a hack job, has always been a hack job that left him with a dull ache from day one with intermittent stabs like a knife digging around it. The cavity left behind from his knee is protected with a metal walling, keeping the organic in, but it drives into what’s left of his bones, allows for the prosthetic joint to connect and work.

The doctor apologizes the whole way through, Hana holds his hand and lets him squeeze. Neither of them try to quiet his screams, they know there’s no helping that.

When it’s all said and done, he’s exhausted and mumbles out a thanks when one of them, he can’t remember who, wraps his serape around his shoulders while he calms down.

Hana fetches the pain meds for him while Angela cleans up.

“Jesse,” the doctor says, offering her hands to him. “I need you to stand up. I need to know if the knee was put in properly straight away.”

He’s nervous. While the gel insert had fucked with his muscles, it’d been relieving to not have that bone-deep ache in his leg. He doesn’t want it back.

Jesse stands, putting weight on his good leg before while balancing off of Angela’s outstretched hands. He rests his right foot on the ground, barely. “Here goes nothing.” He mutters and slowly shifts his weight.

His eyes clench shut, he braces himself to feel the pain to shoot up his leg.

But it never comes.

“How does it feel?”

The gunslinger looks down, sees his improved leg and even goes so far as to lift his left, everything resting on his right. He feels a twinge, a remnant of the operation or perhaps from the muscles being used again, but it’s nothing compared to the day-in day-out pain he’s felt since Talon put the damn thing in him.

He hadn’t realized how bad it hurt before, buried underneath his own denial and years of getting used to it. He can’t stop from crying, tears bubble from his eyes in rapid succession, and Angela flusters about him, urges him to get off his leg if it’s hurting him - “Tell me what’s wrong!” - but it’s a relief. An overwhelming amount of stress and hurt, released with a new knee. He can outrun those dogged thoughts.

He grabs the doctor, pulls her into a tight hug and holds her close. She hesitates to return to gesture, but eventually does, her hands folding neatly against his back, applying just the tiniest bit of pressure that lets him know he can stay there. He’s wanted there.

He’s wanted.

Hana returns, chirps a congratulations on his knee and doesn’t mention the fresh tear tracks on his face.

“We have a surprise for you!” She says once he’s calmed down and released Angela from his hold. “Close your eyes!”

Trust. He trusts these two. He knows they won’t try to hurt him if he looks away. A girl who’s put a blade to his throat in a comforting gesture and a woman who spent her hours making sure he wouldn’t stay in pain. With a deep inhale, he shuts his eyes.

There’s a brief rustling sound and then a weight on his head. Familiar, just like the smell of warmed leather and musty shampoo. He keeps his eyes closed, reaches up and feels the brim, further up to the strap with bullets and a badge on it. His old stetson.

He quickly curls up, drags the serape to cover his face and tries to muffle the choked sobs he makes. For him. They’ve done this all for him - a man like a stallion, only loved when he’s broken. But they are building him up, supporting him and helping him rebuild his house of cards as it teeters precariously.

Another sob racks the wounded man, finally on his way to healing.

-

The common room is far from quiet, but his corner is close to it. Sitting on the sill, he claims the window as his own, sunning regularly and still reading his way through Angela’s medical journals. He’s honestly surprised at how much she’s written or had a hand in writing.

She’s accomplished so much in the same amount of time it’s taken him to fall this far.

Repeatedly people approach him, some with hostility, some with curiosity.

Torbjorn tells him that he knew from the beginning, from the moment Reyes dragged him in for interrogation, that Jesse McCree would bring nothing but trouble. The cowboy drowns that thought in an interesting article about brain activity during sleep.

Lucio hands him a mixtape, a hardlight disk really but the colloquialism of someone’s album hasn’t died, and tells him it’ll help him sleep easier. Jesse uses it for a bookmark in a journal about touch receptors in prosthetics.

With no more responses from him like that day in the messhall, he’s left alone quickly. Of course there’s always Hana who asks him how he’s feeling and seems to know when he wants quiet company or to be left alone. She always approaches with a touch, a hand he can see in a safe place and never does anything to him without asking.

Angela visits his window occasionally, brings him new journals that he might find interesting and sometimes food when he’s been curled up there for too long. She reminds him to do the physical therapy for his leg and while he grunts in annoyance, he will do them. He always does them, the lack of pain in his limb makes way for a relieving sensation when the muscles stretch just right - he can’t wait for the all clear to run on it.

The day starts out like any other, he grabs a mug of coffee and makes his way to his window. He sits and sips at it while the sun rises, painting the landscape with vibrant oranges and yellows.

Jesse’s about to delve into a journal about the potential for organic omnics - metal skeletons and synthetic flesh - when a new face approaches him. New is relative, he’s seen the omnic around the base, usually with Genji close by, but he’s never been approached.

“It is a wonderful morning, is it not?” The omnic says, tilting its head to look out the window.

The cowboy huffs and turns his journal so it can’t see the cover. “I suppose.”

“I think I will take a walk outside, would you like to join me?”

Jesse frowns, eyebrows furrowing. “Look, I don’t know ya and you don’t know me. Ask someone else.”

The omnic chuckles, throws its head back like it needs to, mimicking a human. “But I know you, Jesse McCree,” The casual use of his name has the gunslinger’s hackles raising. “Genji speaks of you often.”

“Genji?”

“Of course, I am his mentor - Zenyatta.” The omnic folds its body in a bow, polite.

Jesse chews at his cheek. “Then you should know I ain’t the person you wanna have take ya for a walk.”

“On the contrary, you are exactly the person I would like to accompany me.” Zenyatta insists but makes no motion to force Jesse up. “I do not require you to converse with me,  if that is what you think, merely the company.”

“What about Genji?” The cowboy asks, trying to find a way out even though he sets his journal down and turns to get up.

The omnic hums. “He is away on a mission for the time being.” He waits for Jesse to rise fully before leading. Once outside, he waits until Jesse can get beside him and then slowly lowers himself and  plants his feet firmly on the ground to walk _with_ him - neither before him or after him. “You are a conflicted man, Jesse McCree.”

The gunslinger curls his lip with a huff. “I didn’t follow you out here to be lectured.”

“I feel as though you have received enough lectures, I would find them of little benefit.” He responds, taking a turn onto a path that leads up to the cliff face of Gibraltar. Zenyatta’s footsteps are light, quick metallic steps that keep up with Jesse’s long strides. He doesn’t enjoy the sound. He waits for Jesse to be beside him again before continuing onward. “Although I do seek to aid you if you will accept it.”

“I don’t need yer pity.”

“I did not pity Genji and I will not pity you.” The omnic turns to him, seems to look the cowboy up and down. “You have many things weighing upon your shoulders, I only seek to help you find the strength to carry them in a more healthy manner.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “You want me to let go of my shit?” He asks with a bite, bitter because he’s tried so many times to leave every hurt feeling, every well of fear behind and move on and nothing works. This won’t work.

“Sometimes there is no letting go of the things we have experienced. We cannot forget everything bad that has happened or we would lose the joy that comes from the good.” The omnic reaches out with his palms turned up. Two of the orbs from his neck fly to hover and twirl above his hands - one appears to set ablaze with golden light and the other drips with dark shadows. “Life is about balance and finding the strength to hold that equilibrium.”

“I should like to help you reach that balance and help you hone the tools to keep it.”

Jesse falls quiet, watches the orbs curiously as they begin to pull toward each other before repelling apart. They repeat the motion, over and over, flying apart with less distance each time until they begin to orbit one another. “What do you gain from this?”

Zenyatta laughs. “Genji told me you were clever.”

The cowboy tenses, prepares to storm away and forget the calming voice of the omnic, or the way that he wants to reach out for the promised peace, the promised method to keep that peace.

“I wish to spread my knowledge - the Shambali, where I come from, seek harmony in the world. But I do not agree with this path.” The orbiting spheres break apart, the yellow glow floating above the omnic’s head. “With so much light, a greater shadow is cast.” Zenyatta turns his gaze towards the cliffside, and Jesse’s follows to where their silhouettes stretch long into the morning sun. “The world needs the darkness for people to hide in just as much as it needs the light for people to shine in. I wish to show more people of this world that balance is necessary and does far more good than complete and blinding harmony.”

“So I’m a guinea pig?”

“I do not need to test, if I know. If anything, Genji would be considered my guinea pig, but you are just a far greater challenge. Where his hatred was external, yours,” the omnic points at his chest, dangerously close to touching him, “is internal.”

Jesse lets out a gust of breath, taking a chance on an omnic he doesn’t know. It feels so similar to the chances with Hanzo, but at least this time if things go sour, he can scurry back into Mercy’s medlab and pretend nothing outside of there exists until he’s ready. “What do I have to do?”

Zenyatta straightens in glee, hands clasping together and orbs floating back to rejoin the ring around his neck. “Tell me, Jesse McCree, how much do you know of meditation?”

-

A deep rumbling begins, churning with ferocious roars. Freedom is finally here, unbound, unchained, the beast breaks free from the last of its ice prison.

For so long its creations have chipped away at its cold cage, breaking off pieces as delicate as they could without damaging their master. Their god. They flock to him and spread out around the world like tendrils, he can feel everything, see everything. There is nothing beyond this god’s reach.

Gears shift, scanning through the eyes of a child’s toy. The dragons, he wanted the dragons. But now, something far better - hardier - lies before him. He watches the trauma of a gunshot through the sniper’s visor, a feat that should destroy an organic body yet the man still stands.

Tough, perfect, a flesh worth synthesizing and integrating.

He sends a follower with a message and the beast awaits the delivery of his prey.

‘ _Bring me the gunslinger._ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, bunches of smooches to Akirata for betaing this monster. And also for listening to my hurtful ideas <3
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	9. Pandora's Box

The brisk fall wind tries its damnedest to put out the end of his cigar, but Jesse quickly shields it from the breeze with his body and puffs hungrily at the end to keep it alight. Not that he’s complaining, all too happy with finally being given the privilege to be outside without an escort service.

No jokes to that one. The last time he’d wanted a smoke, he had at least three armed agents with him just in case he tried to bolt or have a rendezvous with Talon.

The high morning sun warms what the weather tries to cool, heating his face and neck. The feeling is so delightful he unwraps his serape, leaving it to drape behind him and over his shoulders like a shawl and he pops a few buttons on his shirt. He’ll pretty himself back up before he goes inside, but here in this moment, the gunslinger simply wants to enjoy the as much of the sun on his skin as possible.

A bubble pops and the tiny comm in his pocket vibrates- a message from Hana. He holds his cigar between his lips and reaches for it, reading the messages sent to him.

The device is small, outdated technology and linked to a closed and monitored system- the only reason he’s allowed the comm. He can only contact and be contacted by Overwatch agents. It’d been made clear that they felt he didn’t even deserve _this_ much of a luxury, but through the prodding of other agents once again, he was granted it.

On one hand, it irks him that others fight his battles for him with the opposing veterans.

But on the other, it’s nice to know that there are still people who are willing to do so.

She’s sent him another picture of a gruff looking man with a large beard decorated in flowers. It’s the eighth one today that she’s sent and he finally relents. 

> _To Hana: what r these for_

Jesse furrows his brows as he thumbs in the message, tries to decode what the young woman wants from him.

> _From Hana: let me put flowers in your beard, Jess ٩(•̤̀ᵕ•̤́๑)ᵒᵏᵎᵎᵎᵎ_  
>  _To Hana: no_ _  
> From Hana: party pooper!_

He snorts, shuts off the comm and tucks it away safely. He’ll respond to her later once he goes back inside, the day is so nice and Jesse would hate to waste it by getting distracted. He admires how calming it is, clement and quiet save for the sound of the wind, and he wants to revel in that while he can.

He’s been with Overwatch for roughly a month and a half, and away from Talon for just over two. The freedom, or what little he is given, is exhilarating. He doesn’t have to watch his actions so closely, there’s no threat of termination over his head. Sure, the vets have threatened to throw him to the wolves if he fucks up, but he’s become aware that it loosely interprets into ‘ _don’t kill any agents and don’t try to contact Talon and everything will be alright_ ’.

The door to his outside perch creaks loudly, long warped metal groaning in protest.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Jesse’s mood sours. Hanzo looks surprised to see him out there, glances back inside as if debating on just leaving the gunslinger be.

The archer has tried on many occasions to try and explain himself to Jesse, but Jesse knows it’s just to save his own skin. There’s nothing that needs reasoning, the situation is as clear as day and he wants nothing to do with the dragons.

“Ah,” The archer blinks at him owlishly, “I can- I will leave.”

“Don’t bother,” Jesse gruffs, flicking the butt of his cigar to the ground and stomping it out. It joins the few others he’s smoked here in the graveyard of his bad habit, marking his area of comfort.

He approaches the door with the intent to leave, staring down Hanzo as he does. The man doesn’t move, watching Jesse closely.

Between them, the tension draws taught like a bowstring. He just wants to leave, ignore that the dragons exist, flee before he forgets the word which burnt everything they had to the ground. ‘ _Mission_ ’. He doesn’t shrink back, stands toe to toe with the archer and sneers at him, telling him to move out of his way.

Whatever it is, whatever holds Hanzo there in his way instead of dipping to the side like he has so often done before, it snaps.

The crack is audible, or maybe that’s the sound of the back of his head meeting the wall that used to be in front of him. Hanzo’s hands fiercely grab at his arms, his strength keeping Jesse from lashing out and fighting back.

He can’t move, he isn’t free.

“Weeks!” Hanzo snarls, getting in his personal space, fury written in every line of his body. “Weeks and you have not let me speak with you!”

The cowboy struggles, trying to kick at the dragon but soon finds his legs pinned by nanomesh clad shins. He’s no match for Hanzo’s raw strength, the beasts lying in the skin of a man coiling tight around him.

“You don’t deserve it!” Jesse yells, red in the face, twisting in vain to get loose. Panic quickly sets in, feeling that he’s trapped again, unable to break free.

Hanzo grips him tighter and the gunslinger knows there will be bruises on his arms later, purple reminders of this altercation. “I may not but you are acting like a child!”

Their voices are raised, neither of them attempting to calm or quiet the anger they feel.

“I’m the child!?!” Jesse asks, incredulously. “You’re the one who can’t understand that I don’t wanna see you- not after what you did to me!”

The archer stills and leans in. This close, Jesse can see his lips curl in frustration and his sharp teeth displayed. He can see scales threatening to erupt over sharp cheekbones and the briefest flicker of blue to jolt through his eyes. “And what do you think I did to you?” His voice is low, chilling and challenging.

“You did this,” A choked sob breaks him, he wants free. He wants to go where he feels safe and where he doesn’t have to look at the face of the man who broke his heart. “You made me feel wanted!” He bawls, “Like I was fuckin’ worth somethin’. Like I wasn’t just a tool to be used!” His right eye begins to burn and heat seeps into his limbs before sucking back into his core, swirling violently and holding for a release. Everything around them stills, waits with baited breath for the scene to unfold.

There’s a slow, dawning horror on Hanzo’s face as he lurches to releases his hold on Jesse, like he’s realized just how big of a mistake he’s made by cornering the gunslinger.

“But it was all a fuckin’ lie!”

Draw.

Jesse elbows Hanzo, shoving the archer out of his way as he bolts into the building. He sprints - thankful for the ability to do so - for the medbay and doesn’t stop, not even when he hears someone call for him. He’s shaking all over; the door opens too slowly and he clips his shoulder trying to squeeze through.

He flings open the small refrigerator under a cabinet and fishes out as many ice packs as he can carry in his arms.

Nestling them against his chest, hissing at the cool sensation against his heated skin, he tucks into a corner and ducks his head down. He presses his right cheek against the bundles of ice - it helps some, but the heat is still there, swirling and demanding to be shown a target, given a weapon though which to channel the fire.

The uncertainty of it all muddles his senses; if not with a firearm, then what will it shoot?

-

The day is colder, not that it bothers Jesse much as he always ran a little warmer than most, but the clouds have blocked the sun making things grey and dreary. Tracer passes by with a chirp to Winston that it reminds her of home. The newly retrieved climatologist remarks that the weather affects people’s mood more than one would think- depression runs high on darker days.

He feels it. Though, it may just be his body still trying to wind down from the unfired Deadeye two days ago. Sluggish and overbearing, the world feels too large and his eye smarts, worse than if he’d had a trigger to pull. At least he’s still walking.

Jesse whistles softly to himself, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans and his serape bundled higher to hide from the eyes of the vets who scorn him and frequently warn Angela about the security risks from letting him inside. They don’t bother him much, but if he makes his presence less noticeable, keeps his head low, they don’t give the doctor such a hard time.

He enters the medbay and shoulders the door closed behind him. “Howdy, Doc.” He greets, lifting his head up and smiling. He hopes it’s convincing, that she doesn’t see how much of a mess the fight with Hanzo has made him.

Jesse has barely slept, afraid of seeing dragons coiling tightly around him. He eats his meals at odd hours, times when he knows Hanzo won’t be there. What was once passive ignorance has now blossomed into active avoidance.

“Jesse!” Angela perks up from her computer at his presence, “Here for another journal, I presume?” She gives him a knowing wink. “One begins to believe you only ever come to me for books.”

“Aw, Doc, you know that ain’t the case. I just can’t be cooped up in here forever.” Despite how much he knows they want him in a cage - their own prison, it wouldn’t matter so long as he was put away and forgotten.

She hums into a chuckle and grabs a journal from the shelf behind her desk. She pauses, stares at the cover and the smile drops from her face, replaced by a worrying look. “Hanzo has only ever come to visit me thrice.” She says suddenly.

Jesse scowls. “I don’t wanna talk ‘bout him.”

“The last time was to ask if you were okay after I found you hoarding the melted ice packs-”

“Doc.”

“The first time was to seek permission to use my cabin for your transport.” The Alps. Of course it would have belonged to her. “And the second-”

“Angela!” Jesse snaps in warning.

She presses on, raises her gaze to meet his. “He bought the cabin.”

The brewing anger dies out, leaving him feeling hollow and deflated. “What?”

“Hanzo bought the cabin,” She smiles weakly and offers him the journal, “for you and him.”

He numbly takes the book, barely registering its weight as he does. Angela ushers him towards the entrance - “I have a lot of work to finish today, Jesse.” - and sees him out. His feet drag him past his windowsill perch and past the kitchen where the smell of fresh brewed coffee tries to tug him in, and to his own room. Cramped quarters in comparison to the room he used to call home in the Blackwatch wing, it might as well be a broom closet, but it’s close to the other agents should he need containment.

The fact is never far from his mind that they can hear him scream should his nightmares return and he doesn’t know what to tell them when it inevitably comes. He doesn’t want to show them that weakness, that he’s terrified of ghosts and phantoms who have met their end by his deadly gaze.

Jesse sits on the floor at the end of his bed, too swaddled in his serape and confusion to want to bury himself in his mattress.

‘ _He bought the cabin._ ’

A sudden spark of remembrance- a bottle of amber liquid is stashed away in his quarters by Angela, a gift to celebrate gaining some of his freedom back.

He doesn’t have to go far, crawls across the threadbare carpeting to his dresser - empty for the most part, Hana has promised to take him out for more clothes when she returns - and he wrenches open the bottom drawer. A lonely bottle greets him with a tumble from inertia, glimmering in the early sunlight from his window with a ‘howdy partner, ya look mighty lonely’.

Or maybe Jesse’s just projecting company onto the alcohol.

‘ _Here. Forever._ ’

Glasses are not required for drinking alone and he quickly scratches away the paper seal, popping open the bottle and taking a swig. The whiskey burns, sends him coughing and with a flush of embarrassment, he recalls that it’s been months since his last proper drink.

‘ _For you and him._ ’

It doesn’t deter him any.

He leans against the dresser, still on the floor and drinks. He drowns out the memories of the cabin, free falls in the amber until those two weeks coalesce together into something he can sweep into the pit of his memories. It will always remain right there beside pokemon battles in a dark hotel room and long nights with stories from his Ma.

‘ _Will you stay with me?_ ’

Jesse swallows his cries and anguish. He doesn’t care how fast he washes it down and with each pull, he’s forced to face the truth that he’s always trusted too much and lost everything for it. He wanted to be loved and have it last, so desperately that he ignored everything in his lizard brain - _Danger, danger!_ \- that told him it was a ruse.

He fumbles for his comm, opens the thread of messages from Hana.

> _To Hana: do u love me_

The wait is agonizing, he drinks more to ignore his anxieties when time begins to drag on. The pop of a bubble has never sounded so sweet.

> _From Hana: of course!_ _  
> _ _From Hana: (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡_

Jesse lets out a little whine, sets the bottle down and tries to breath. The clock says it’s just before noon and while he might be trying to drown his emotions, he wants to be functioning, hopefully, in an hour or so after everyone has eaten lunch and vacated the kitchen. Leave him all by his lonesome.

> _From Hana: is everything ok?_

No, it’s not. He’s as distraught as ever but he can’t burden her with that. He hasn’t even told her that if he had a weapon in his hands, Hanzo would be dead.

The thought urges him to take another drink.

Just as he tilts the bottle and the slosh of alcohol meets his lips, there’s a knock at his door. It’s likely Angela, no one else would come looking for him. Out of sight, out of mind for the rest of Overwatch.

“It’s open, Doc!” He hollers, prideful with how little he slurs. Months or no, he can still tolerate his alcohol.

His door doesn’t open, but a voice filters through, deep and rumbling like a storm. “It is not Doctor Zeigler.”

Ire clears the cobwebs of inebriation enough for him to haul himself off the ground and over to the door. He leans against it, bracing himself because some small piece of him fears that the dragon will break down the door. He’s afraid of the dragons strangling tight around him until all his insides - physical and not - come spilling out. Vulnerable.

“Whaddya want?” He hisses through the door.

“Please open the door.”

Jesse slams his fist against the wall beside the opening. “Why? So you can grab me again? Ya have a death wish? Cause this time I got my gun.” He’s bluffing, Peacekeeper has been tucked away since he got her back, afraid of when his keepers will change their minds about letting him have her.

He’s always afraid.

“Jess- McCree.” When the cowboy doesn’t budge, Hanzo lets out a hefty sigh of defeat. “I have your gameboys.”

Red and blue, sold away, old antiques that saved Widowmaker’s mind from falling too far. “I don’t want your damn charity. Ain’t no replacin’ the ones I sold.” Needlessly. Hanzo wasn’t poor, he had enough money to buy a cabin, to likely buy the car that was untraceable. But he needed to keep up the illusion of helplessness, to get Jesse to feel in control of leaving - so the gameboys had to be sold away.

“They are not replacements. I returned to the pawn shop… the man still had them and I retrieved them. They seemed very important to you.”

They were.

They are.

Jesse presses the release button and the door slides open, leaving him face to face with a briefly startled Hanzo, as though the archer wasn’t expecting him to actually open the door. Or maybe it was a flinch, expecting to come face to face with Deadeye again, this time loaded with a gun. It’s hard to discern the differences in Hanzo’s facial expressions with this much alcohol in his system.

There, held gently in his hands are the gameboys. Red and blue, sold away, and yet right here before him. Jesse sways on the spot, which doesn’t go unnoticed by the archer who quickly gives him a once over with a critical eye and then looks just past him into his room. There was no effort to hide the bottle, and it lays tipped over and spilling onto the floor.

“McCree… are you drunk?”

Jesse sneers, curling his lip and snagging the gameboys from Hanzo’s hands before he can change his mind and hold them ransom, demand something else from the gunslinger. “Not enough to deal with you.”

Hanzo casts his gaze off to the side. “It is still morning.”

“Close enough to noon.” He drawls.

“That does not make it any better!” The archer snaps, quickly reeling himself back. “You should take care of yourself, McCree.”

Something snaps and Jesse jabs a finger at Hanzo’s chest, poking harsh enough that dragon is forced to take a step back. “Where do you get off? Walkin’ ‘round here, actin’ like you still care. Actin’ like you ain’t done nothin’ wrong in your life.” His stomach clenches, feels bile and alcohol lick at his throat. “We both know that ain’t true - ya don’t fuck a man like ya love him and then turn him over like you did me without bein’ rotten from the inside out.”

‘ _Here. Forever._ ’

The world spins violently and raises a very important question: how much has he actually drank? It raises the contents of his stomach - nothing but alcohol at this moment in time - up and out and right onto the floor between Hanzo and himself. With so little distance between them, it’s a miracle that virtually none gets on either of them.

“Jesse!” Anger tinged with concern, the sound of his name in that tone makes Jesse wish he’d aimed a little better.

He glances at the bottle; one-fifth spilled and one-fifth left. He can do the math of a freshly opened bottle on an empty stomach and it suddenly makes sense why he wants to kick Hanzo's ass and at the same time, fuck it into his mattress.  
  
The errant thought makes him snap and snarl when the dragon steps over the mess he's made and herds him back into his room. Despite not being touched, he swats at Hanzo's guiding hands. He fights until he’s in the bed, falls back onto it with an 'oof' and his swats turn into grabs. He pulls at the archer's clothing, tries to draw him closer while the man plucks the gameboys from Jesse's hand and deposits then safely on the bedside table.  
  
"C'mere." The gunslinger grumbles when Hanzo refuses to get closer.  
  
"You are drunk."  
  
"So? Ain't this what you want?" He wants to be wanted.  
  
"No."  
  
Such a small word, a kind notion- he’s not taking advantage of his inebriated state. But to Jesse's fuzzy brain, it's the cruelest word, pinpoint rejection. "I did." His voice cracks, "I wanted forever."  
  
Hanzo, halfway to the door, pauses and lingers long enough to pick up the mostly empty bottle and look over at Jesse one last time. "Get some rest."  
  
The cowboy laughs, hollow. "I almost believed you did too."  
  
Too far and facing away, he doesn't hear the dragon's confession.  
  
"I still do."

-

Hana returns and the incidents with Hanzo go unmentioned. No one approaches him about anything, so he assumes it’s safe to say that the dragon hasn’t told anyone - not about Deadeye and not about the drinking.

The subsequent hangover had been brutal, his body unaccustomed to processing his liquor, and somehow he managed to drag himself out of his quarters to grab leftovers from the group dinner and then squirrel away to lick his wounds in private. The fifth of a bottle remained on his dresser, a taunt and a reminder that it was always there for him.

But he doesn’t need it, doesn’t have the urge to drown his sorrows in its remains and call it company when he has an actual, flesh and blood person willing to spend time with him.

They’re nestled on the small loveseat in the common room, she on one side and originally, he was on the other. He’s since then turned, getting comfortable and throwing his legs up and onto her lap, chuckling when Hana thanks him for skipping the boots and spurs that day.

She gives him a snort and a giggle when he pulls out his gameboy, not hesitating to tease him for his gaming gear. “Jeez, that tech must be as ancient as your fashion sense is.” He threatens her in return by wiggling his feet closer to her face - the apology, while under duress and disgust, is immediate and Jesse settles with a satisfied hum.

He thumbs the cartridge in the gameboy, staring at it . So small and fragile, yet it holds the world and its existence means more than the universe. He has Ruby tucked away, back in the safety of his room along with the other gameboy. He can’t bear to look into his own game, knows what team awaits him with the press of the power button and there’s nothing that can force him to face the two Dratini’s named after a traitor.

So he’s playing Widowmaker’s game, Sapphire in contrast to his game and the system he’s playing on. Jesse smiles when he pulls up the team she has; Gérard, Amélie, and Reaper are all right where they had been when they left the hotel, and he takes it upon himself to continue the game.

This will be his reminder. Through a simple game, pixels and data, he will always remember that he’s promised to return for her.

He goes to her PC in the game, curious about what other memories she may have hidden within the game. He finds a box titled ‘Princesses’ and inside are pokemon with names like Aurora, Mulan, and Belle. Classic, old, Disney stories that must have once meant something important to her.

He finds a nearly empty box titled ‘McCree’ and the only pokemon within it is another Cacnea with the moniker ‘Little Oaf’. It gives Jesse a wistful smile..

But something throws him. Through all of the boxes, the pokemon have been categorized in bursts of memories and reminders, given personalities to attribute their names to. However, the last box is titled ‘Meeting’ and is filled to bursting with beginner level Zigzagoons and nothing else.

As he passes over each of them, he finds them with two digit numbers for names - only in 1s and 0s. He recognizes it as binary, but was never proficient enough to be able to pick up on the language.

Jesse sits up straight, leans over near Hana and presents the screen to her. “You got a program that can read binary?” He asks.

She raises and eyebrow and peers at the numbers as he passes over them again. “No, but it’s easy enough to search on the web if you-” Hana pauses, stares at him and squints. “Right, no access.” She holds her hand out. “I can look it up for you, sure.”

He hesitates to hand it over to her at first, having only just gotten it back in his hands. He doesn’t want to be without it again, doesn’t want to risk the damage to it or, heaven forbid, the damage to the game cartridge. Eventually, he relents, saving the game and handing it over.

“Who’s game is it anyways?” Hana chirps innocently as she tucks it into her bag.

Jesse chews at the inside of his cheek, wonders how much he can tell her and decides to take a leap of faith. He hopes it won’t end up like the one he made with Hanzo.

“Widowmaker’s.”

The young woman’s head whips around and she stares at him, a myriad of questions flickering in her expressions until she settles on a stern stare. “Jesse, if I get in trouble with this… I won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus.”

He nods, understands. He doesn’t expect her to risk her career here, her future, for his sake. He knows there’s a risk with it, that the veterans had demanded all technology that came in with him be destroyed. The chance that Talon had it all chipped and tracked was highly likely.

Jesse hid the games from them because he never expected to play them again and he knew they were something Talon had no idea of, or else Widowmaker and he would have been reconditioned for it long ago.

“I appreciate the help… and the honesty.” No blindsides if things go south. It’s just his ass on the line and if she gets caught, it’s easy enough to tell them that he lied to her about it. They’ll believe just about anything anyone says he’s done, especially if it’s a shit move.

She smiles, lightly jabs a fist at his arm. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got something on it.”

-

Jesse, despite being given Peacekeeper, has not yet been given access to the shooting range. However, he has full access of the other training rooms - the track, the multicourse, the weight room. He’s most excited to try out the weight room.

As promised Hana got him new clothes, including a nice pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt made of hydrophobic materials so sweat wouldn’t pool and stain. They were plain, but long lasting and comfortable. The both of them had forgotten about shoes and Jesse is well aware that boots aren’t appropriate gym footwear. Angela made him promise to stay away from the actual weights and stick to the punching bags and sparring mats, and provided he did that, she informed him that barefoot would be alright for the time being.

He bided his time, took note of when others used the room and picked out a nice time when he would be alone.

He abuses the old-fashioned punching bags first as a warmup. Jabs it here and there, knees at it, kicks it with the flat top of his foot like one should a soccer ball. He gets his body used to the movement again, feels a rush because he’s _able_ to do it again. The ever present pain from his Talon prosthetics prevented him from such training days, it was only the adrenaline of a job that would push him through the activities on a mission.

Eventually, Jesse moves on to the self-healing bags. Made of a nano-gel substance, a control panel can be used to adjust its firmness in a range of jello to brick wall. He settles for the preset of ‘Human Body’, and asks for the system to record the damage he does.

Aware of his limitations due to his rustiness, he doesn’t push himself too far or too fast. He goes through bouts of fast, rapid fire hits, calming jabs in between, and strong punches meant to knock out opponents. The system tells him that he’s fit enough to knock quite a number of people on their asses.

He resets it, holds the bag in place and rests his weight on his good leg. He bends his prosthetic, testing it before swinging it up full force into the bag. It caves in at the bottom, jars from his grasp and the system is quick to tell him that his knee can break multiple bones.

The system is reset again and while the bag is healing, he recalls the break out. His old fist was capable of breaking through bulletproof glass, shattering it and freeing the archer. He wonders, with a small flex of his metal fingers, if this one is capable of such a thing as well.

Jesse readies himself, braces the bag with his flesh hand and winds back the prosthetic. The sliding of the metal plates is no longer grating, but smooth with soft clicks when they find their place. The hiss of steam is soft but just as furious as before without all the bluster. A new development: bright blue lights begin to glow fiercely the longer he lets the pressure build up in the pneumatic system. Unlit before, he watches them closely.

He supposes his arm lets him know when it’s drawn to max when the running lights blink steadily.

His arm flies forward with a snap and Jesse nearly tosses his lunch when his fist goes straight through the bag. He stares, horrified into the hole he’s created. The system tells him that his new prosthetic is capable of enough force to punch clean through someone’s chest.

He deletes the data promptly.

The bag is healing the last remains of the hole when the doors to the room slide open. He keeps his back turned, goes back to his routine of punching and kicking at the bag, although he holds back with his metal fist, and hopes the other occupant will ignore him just as he ignores them.

No such luck. In fact, rotten luck.

“McCree?”

His stomach turns again, remembers how he’d drunkenly offered himself to that voice, shown how desperate he was to be wanted by someone - _anyone_. Only to have that same voice reject him. He still wishes he’d vomited on Hanzo’s feet, and with the flips his stomach is performing, perhaps he’ll get a second chance.

Jesse staunchly ignores the other man, goes back to punching at his bag, and with a heavy huff, Hanzo accepts that he’s not getting any of the gunslinger’s attention and goes about his business.

For a long while it’s just the sounds of them each beating on their stationary opponents.

Each strike drags Jesse’s thoughts to their previous encounter. He was drunker than he’d like to admit that night, affected far more than he expected, and it dug a well of emotions he wasn’t prepared to face. In the wake of rejection, he’d had to accept that he wasn’t wanted- at least not in the way he desires.

He’s desperate for someone to want him in their arms, like he’s someone worth loving and not loved for the trouble he causes. He yearns for fingers softly entwined in his own, gentle laughs and simple touches that ignite fires deep in his gut. He wants satisfaction, an itch scratched that not once, in all his years, has been satisfied. At least, not until Hanzo - the dragon, the liar and thief - had scratched him raw and left him so sated that he thought it had to be be real. If only it was.

His fists hit the bag in a rapidly increasing frequency and weight, distress and vulnerability weighing him down and fueling each strike.

“You will get better results from a training partner that is not a stationary object.”

Jesse whips around and snarls at the archer, trying his damnedest not to let his eyes drift beneath the collar of the shirt he wears. “You fuckin’ offering?” It’s meant to be a threat, everything in him sings at the prospect of throwing punches at the source of so much vexation and distress.

Hanzo, calm and collected, turns to Jesse and readies himself. He bends his knees and raises his hands with open palms. ‘ _Will you take it?_ ’ is the silent question.

The cowboy lunging at the archer, screaming, is the loud answer.

Unprepared for the full frontal assault, the archer goes sprawling beneath Jesse’s weight. He snakes out from under the cowboy, wraps around his back and tries to flatten him to the ground. Jesse bucks, rolls, crushes the dragon and shakes him loose.

Neither of them, despite the original intentions, attempt to make it a proper spar. They wrestle, grapple and shove at each other. Jesse tries to connect his fists to Hanzo’s body, but all the dragon seeks is to subdue the raging gunslinger.

He doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try to strike Jesse. He artfully dodges and blocks and lets Jesse wail at him fruitlessly.

It makes red bleed across Jesse’s vision. “Fight back!” He snarls in frustration when the dragon manages to pin him on his front for a brief moment.

“You are upset.”

Jesse flips again, breaks free from Hanzo’s hold and grabs the dragon, throwing  him away as he stands. “Hit me!”

Hanzo runs in on light feet, feinting to one side and swiping at Jesse from the other, knocking back to his ass. “No.” He breathes, up close, entirely too close for his voice to be pitched so low.

The cowboy is the one who pins the dragon this time, hands wrapped around pale wrists, knee pressing against a muscled abdomen. “Hit me _so I stop thinkin’ you care!_ ” He howls.

The archer freezes, considers his options and for a moment, Jesse is hopeful that he will be struck. And with it, all confusion over Hanzo dashed.

The dragon surges upward, loosened from his hold, and Jesse braces himself for a fist across his face.

He braces himself for the wrong thing.

Hands dig into his hair, drag him down to meet the dragon’s lips. Furiously, Jesse unravels. They paw at each other, mouths opening wider and wider, all but consuming the other.

The cowboy is enraged with how eagerly he grabs at the dragon, how desperately he tugs at the hem of hanzo’s form fitting shirt and slides his hands up and up and up against scaled skin. The rasp against his tough fingers, against the new metal of his prosthetic, unleashes a flood of fonder memories. Of scales sliding between his thighs, of raw swathes of skin all across his body from the affectionate _rubbing_. His body betrays him, yearns for it even more than he cries out to be wanted.

Jesse whines into the kiss, presses closer because he’s still upset, he’s still angry at what’s been done to him… but Hanzo still shows him patience and gentleness. Hanzo still treats him like a human being, doesn’t press when he’s angry, doesn’t question his wants and his needs. The gunslinger regrets the quarrel outside, as much fury as that brewed, even the most tolerant man has his limits.

How cruel he’s been, unwilling to listen to the dragon, even when he was only half sure it would be nothing but more lies. Now he doubts that anything the archer would say would be a lie. Hands stroking at his face, his neck, pressing against his back through his shirt; they make him doubt. Even now, Hanzo is wary and doesn’t press further, doesn’t assume he can touch all of Jesse without his word. Faced with Jesse trying to crush him after trying so hard to hit him and invoke the dragon’s strength, he still treats Jesse like the most precious thing in the world.

It hurts.

He suddenly, violently wrenches himself off the archer, ignoring Hanzo calling out in bewilderment as he scrambles to his feet and bolts.

His room is safe, and the last one-fifth of the whiskey is enough to help him ignore the torrent of affection and the ache that swirls together in his chest. Uncertainty grips at him and Jesse knows that until he asks, until he faces the archer without fury or alcohol infused self-loathing, he won’t find any of the answers he seeks.

Still he looks for them at the bottom of his bottle.

-

Jesse seeks out Zenyatta, finds him on the ledge of a communications tower, soaking in the sun. It’s strange, he thinks, that an omnic made of metal would do just the same as he, made of flesh. He wonders if Zenyatta feels the same sensation of warmth across his body as the gunslinger does, and if not, what does he feel?

He takes a seat as quiet as he can beside the omnic, wincing when his spurs hit the ground with a loud, sharp jingle. If the monk is bothered from it, he makes no movement to indicate it.

The cowboy pries off his boots, setting them to the side and crosses his legs. Just as he’d been instructed to, he straightens his back, takes long, measured breaths and exhales slowly.

At first, he’d questioned how the omnic knew about the breathing techniques a human would use, which was met with gentle laughter and an explanation that many humans visited the Shambali Monastery to find peace with themselves. It was required that monks knew both omnic and human rituals.

It put Jesse at ease when joining Zenyatta.

He focuses on the gentle chimes of the monk’s orbs, the radiance of the sun beating down on him, and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside of the Watchpoint.. It draws him in, helps him forget about the turmoil of finding his place here, tamps down the rising anxiety surrounding his dragon counterpart.

The thought, _his_ , jolts him from the floating equilibrium of meditation, violently so.

“Something troubles you.” Zenyatta speaks without moving and without upsetting the rhythms of his orbs.

Jesse opens his mouth to deny it, but knows it will be futile against the omnic who seems to know all. “Yeah,” He admits, but gives no more before trying again to return to meditating. When it fails, kept at bay by the ghosts of hands sifting through his hair, he lets out a frustrated huff. “Y’ever think you know someone, know their type real good… but they surprise you?”

Zenyatta lifts his head, as though to stare into the horizon. “I do.” He pauses, his orbs stilling in their gentle orbit, “When I was younger I was quick to judge, especially to those visiting the temple. It was a fault many of my brothers tried to break me of, but I was so set in my ways that I would not bend- so sure that the path I chose and my beliefs were true.

“A man came to the temple one night, armed, of a military background. I was so sure he would cause only trouble. I tried to stop him from entering, as I was certain he would bring nothing but ruin and harm to my brothers.

“And when I told him to go, he knelt before me and begged.” The omnic’s orbs begin to swirl once more, but cease in their chimes. Zenyatta plucks one from the ring and the others change velocity to space themselves evenly around him.

The orb in his hand blossoms, a plate sliding loose so that it unfolds like a lotus blossom in his hand. “A man who had taken countless lives, a commander he turned out to be, knelt before an omnic who would call him a monster if asked ten seconds beforehand what he thought. He was at his wit’s end, and he begged for peace of mind, for someone to, for once, _listen_ to him.”

“And?” Jesse bleats, too wrapped in the story to prevent himself from prying.

“So I did.”

The monk laughs and cups the lotus in both hands as it blooms with petals of light peeling out from it. “Did you know that singing to flowers will help them bloom?” His chimes resume and the ethereal petals of the lotus sway and pulse in time. “But it cannot survive on sounds alone. A healthy flower will bloom to its fullest when watered, sunned, and pruned.”

“Zenyatta,” A rumbling voice echoes from behind them.

Jesse locks up, the voice sending a chill down his spine and setting off alarms in his mind. He scrambles to his feet just in time to see Reaper approaching them on the tower.

The omnic leans back and tilts his head, giving a pleased hum. “You made it,” He sounds somehow relieved.

The gunslinger doesn’t have his gun on him, doesn’t have much of anything and he’s witnessed enough of Reaper’s hand-to-hand combat to know to keep his distance. So he grabs the only thing he can think of within reach.

With a hefty lob, he chucks his boot straight at the mercenary.

Who promptly dodges.

“Jesse, cease.” Zenyatta says firmly.

The cowboy flounders, reaches for his other boot with a snarl. “He’s a Talon merc!”

Reaper smooths out his robe and glances between Jesse and the omnic. “Perhaps I should come back-” His words are cut short as the second boot is thrown and connects, knocking his mask loose.

The face that glares back at him is that of a ghost.

Dark skin is muted with the pallor of death, black smoke oozes from between Reaper’s parted lips and the open crevices across his face. The yellowed tone of long exposed bone peeks from underneath the torn skin at his jaw and travels up to meet burns marring the side of his head. It’s fucked up. Something swirls, an eye appears, red and angry, and blinks at him before disappearing entirely, it’s so entirely fucked up, but it’s still the face of Gabriel Reyes.

A devil he should know anywhere.

“You-” Jesse struggles for words, a chill seeping into his entire body and threatening to freeze him, as Reaper - Reyes - Reaper swipes the mask and holds it tightly in his hands.

“I was hoping to wait until you acclimated more. But… _surprise_ .” The word is unenthused, brought with a long, wide sweep of his arms - _ta-da!_ \- sarcastic in the aftermath of information blown too early.

Questions swarm him, remove any sense of contentment the gunslinger might have achieved in those brief moments with Zenyatta. How did he survive? Why was he here? Wasn’t Reaper- wasn’t he with Talon? And perhaps the most jarring question, more a realization, but an accusation really:

“You were there the whole time.”

There when Jesse was forced to pick and choose who to kill until the list ran small. There when Jesse dragged former comrades down the halls of the Pen, ignoring how they cursed at him six ways to Sunday. There when he returned empty handed but with several  wounds and one that resulted in the loss of his arm. There. There.

Here.

He doesn’t wait for an explanation, doesn’t demand one either. Jesse does what he’s always done best in the face of his problems.

He runs.

-

Hana’s words replay in his head as he stands outside the shooting range.

 _“It’s a message- a place and a date.”_ A rendezvous.

He can’t ask anything more of Hana, she’s already risked enough by not telling the upper management about his stowaway cartridges, or keeping the decoded data secret. It’d be far too much to ask that she find some way to take him on a mission to Madrid.

But he can ask a dragon.

He’s still not allowed into the range, but he’s let Athena know to alert Hanzo to an urgent situation, and there’s little doubt that the archer will come swiftly.

Jesse ignores the twist in his stomach, tries to push back the memory of the last meeting he had with the archer, clawing desperately at each other on the weight room floor. It’s hard to keep it down when his chest twists at the sight of Hanzo speedily walking out of the shooting range, as if Jesse is his primary concern.

The archer approaches him but doesn’t touch, he gives the gunslinger a once over, eyes flickering electric blue. “Are you alright?”

Too close is the ghost that pushes him against the wall and makes him wail because it’s one that cares. Jesse avoids answering. “I need a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Take me to Madrid.”

Hanzo pauses, knitting his eyebrows together. “Why?”

“I need to meet someone.”

Too clever for his own good, the archer catches on. “From Talon.”

Jesse lifts his chin, stares down at the other man. “She helped us.” He’s desperate, Widowmaker left the date and coordinates in her game for a reason. She left them for Jesse to find, the only person in the world who knows about her game. “Please.”

“I cannot.”

The archer turns to leave, but Jesse grabs his wrist, tugs at him insistently. “Hanzo,” The dragon tenses under his fingers. “Please. If-” Jesse digs his nails in and digs deep, pulls at old wounds. “If those two weeks… what we had… if that meant anything to you at all- If I really meant something to you then, you’ll help me.”

Hanzo whirls around, invades the cowboy’s space and glares at him with a curled lip. “I will-” Jesse’s heart leaps- “-provided,” - right into his stomach.

Conditions. There’s always conditions.

A hand traces up his neck to his jaw, cups it firmly and Jesse nearly melts into the affectionate touch- starved for it. Hanzo draws his head down, and with it, forces their gaze to meet. “Provided you never doubt that I meant _everything_ I said or did with you in that cabin.”

-

The weather in Madrid has a crisp snap to it that feels nearly as good against his exposed skin as the sun. With autumn falling away, the soft winter winds bring a chill that prevents most from sitting outside in the patio section of the cafe, but not Jesse, much to Hanzo’s grumbled dismay as he burrows inside his jacket.

The cowboy is in civilian clothing, jeans and a flannel button up, not the chique for around here, but not enough that he sticks out like a sore thumb. He adjusts his small ponytail and leans back, gaining semblance of  a casual tourist enjoying the afternoon. Hanzo looks much the same, although dressed up in slacks and a peacoat. With his legs crossed, he looks far more professional.

Jesse waits patiently, even when Hanzo quietly insists that this was a pointless risk. He makes a remark about a trap and the gunslinger knows it could be entirely possible, but he has to know Widowmaker’s okay- if she doesn’t show, he’s running into Talon with guns blazing. He promised he’d come for her.

Thankfully, any future shootouts are held at bay as the lady of the hour approaches the table and sits across from Jesse without a word. She’s dressed in the latest fashion with a lined fur coat and heels that could cut into the sidewalk, impeccable just like she was in a previous life. Widowmaker glances at Hanzo over the rims of her thick sunglasses and back to Jesse with a raised eyebrow.

“Mind givin’ us a second alone?” Jesse demands under the guise of a question and with a huff of annoyance and a refusal held on the tip of his tongue, the dragon acquiesces and goes to sit at the far end of the patio.

As soon as they are given the space, Jesse grabs for her hands, bundles her cold fingers in his own and holds them. “How did you know I’d get it?”

She smiles weakly. “I did not. But I hoped.” She twists one hand loose and rests it on top of his. “You look good, _mon chér_.”

Jesse pulls their hands closer to him, ducks to rest his forehead atop the bundle. “I ain’t your darlin’.” He mutters halfheartedly, a playful jab.

“Is that man treating you well?” She glances pointedly over at Hanzo, tilting her chin up when the dragon no doubt glowers at her.

The cowboy chuckles. “He’s a douche.”

The sniper frowns, brushing long hair from her shoulder. “A _douche_ …. A shower?”

His chuckle bleeds into a guffaw that he muffles against their hands, shoulders shaking. “He’s an asshole.”

“Ah,” The language barrier falls and she smirks. “ _Connard_.”

“And he won’t say nothin’ about this meeting-” The gunslinger raises his voice so that Hanzo can hear him clearly. “-or he ain’t ever getting a second chance.”

Widow watches Hanzo carefully from over his shoulder. “He looks happy.” Her gaze returns to Jesse who flushes red because he knows why the archer is happy, Jesse has just admitted to giving him a shot. “Are you happy?”

The question catches him by surprise, but the answer is easy. “Here and there, yeah. Some days are worse than others, but I can deal with it. Are you safe?”

She shakes her head and his stomach drops. It’s because of him. “They do not suspect that I… am my own woman.” Working away from the conditioning. “But there is still danger in Talon. Someone bigger than the Sandman is pulling the strings.” Her voice falls to a hushed whisper. “Agents are going missing and we are getting new ones faster… but they act strangely and do not last long.”

“Strange?”

Widowmaker nods. “They do not speak and they follow set paths like clockwork, without deviation. If it is a different method of reconditioning, it kills them within a week or two. And then there is the smell.” She scrunches her face. “Like rotting corpses.”

‘ _Almost thought someone was bringin’ me a bouquet of dead bodies-_ ’

The motel, the message. Whatever is worming its way into Talon had been hot on his heels.

She stands, pulling their hands apart. “I cannot stay any longer. After your escape… all agents are tracked. You should leave here as soon as possible.”

Jesse jumps up after, wraps a firm arm around her waist and pulls her to him. She’s so small in his arms, but he hugs her like he means it because she deserves it. “Stay safe. I’m still comin’ for ya.” He murmurs.

Widowmaker presses a hand to his cheek, kisses the opposite gently. “I know. Now go put your dragon at ease, he has been restless since you pushed him away.” And like a spider on the wall, she flitters away, only to be found when she wants to be found again.

As soon as she is gone, Hanzo appears by his side, not touching, but closer than before.

-

Not quite touching is how they remain, even when they share a bed in a run down hotel room. Hanzo falls asleep first, leaving Jesse to drift into his dreams, if only.

The nightmares come first.

He tosses and turns, wakes up a mere two hours later with a scream and jolt that wakes the dragon beside him. Worried, electric blue eyes stare at him, beg: _let me hold you_. Jesse ignores it, lays back down with his back to Hanzo and tries not to think about his dream.

One by one, everyone he’d ever loved had come to him, and each one had fallen with a bullet between their eyes. Everyone save for Leslie, still absent but not forgotten. Mama, Ma Deadlock, and more until Hana, and then even Hanzo. Watching the dragon fall is what wakes him, unable to shake the sight of his strong body crumpling, lifeless at his feet… Jesse shakes.

He can’t stop himself. He rolls over, grabs for Hanzo and curls against the archer’s back. His head ducks down to rest in the crook of Hanzo’s neck, his arms wrapping around his midsection. He doesn’t want to be alone. Jesse clings desperately, pulls a little too tight but the dragon says nothing to stop him.

Instead, he hums. A wordless tune, perhaps a lullaby long forgotten from his mother, gravelly and low with his voice, but it’s soothing all the same.

When he dreams this time, he floats in a storm that gently rumbles of thunder that fills him with warmth.

-

A loud crack startles them both awake when the sun is just peeking into the room. The door blown off its hinges and both of them are up. Hanzo snarls, throws himself full bodied at the intruders while Jesse fumbles for his gun in his bag.

There’s a screech, ungodly, and a crack of lightning accompanies it outside.

He glances over his shoulders as he draws the zipper and finds Hanzo fighting with five Talon agents. They hadn’t left fast enough.

Jesse’s stomach lurches when he sees a knife wound in Hanzo’s side, but still the dragon fights with the fury of a raging storm. In little clothing, clawing at the intruders, scales erupt over his cheekbones and the bare half of his back, and ivory horns pop through the skin on his forehead - small nubs that appear to grow with each passing moment of combat.

He grabs for Peacekeeper and whirls around in time to see Hanzo get thrown across the room, landing with a heavy thud as he hits the opposite wall.

The heat had never consumed him so fast. He wants them dead, for his safety, for Hanzo’s safety, because he’s determined to remain free. It burns white hot, but it only soothes the gunslingers nerves as it pulls into his center, setting up for release.

Less than a second.

Hanzo roars.

He pulls Peacekeeper’s trigger.

The dragon throws himself into the fray again.

Jesse’s heart stops when the shots go off and every body drops to the ground.

“No.” He whispers at first, casting his gun aside and scrambling to the pile. “No. No. No, _no, no_.” His voice stresses more and more as he pushes over the bodies of the Talon agents, the bullet wounds in each of their heads reminding him of the carnage he brings.

“ _Not again._ Han,” He pleads, hefting another body away. “Hanzo, c’mon.”

Beckoned by his name, the dragon shifts, rises and pushes the last body from on top of him. He whirls around, looks at Jesse with wild eyes that quickly soften when he realizes they’re no longer in danger. Or at least, when the dragon believes they’re no longer in danger.

Jesse can see it, even with his eye swelling, something twists in the corner of his vision, in the pool of blood forming on the floor, in the bullet holes. He’s a monster, nothing but destruction and death is brought into the world because of him. One day he’ll be the death of Hanzo, just like he’d been for Leslie and for Ma Deadlock.

“Jesse,”

Hands press at his shoulders, draw his attention to the dragon. Alive.

“Jesse we need to leave, now.”

Urgently, they get dressed and book it. He doesn’t look at Peacekeeper when he shoves the gun to the bottom of his bag, doesn’t see that one bullet remains.

-

It’s before noon, but they find a warehouse to hole up in, squirreling away to the top floor. A decision made by Hanzo when Jesse stops a few blocks from their hotel and heaves his empty guts into a gutter.

A monster. Twisting. Traveling with a man who turns into actual dragons, and Jesse is the monster.

The afternoon passes swiftly, with Jesse snapping and hissing when Hanzo tries to come near him. He doesn’t want to hurt him, he can’t go through another Leslie- can’t handle how his heart clenches violently from the thought.

Hanzo goes out in the evening to get food, and Jesse wants to protest being left alone but his stomach rumbles something fierce in a plea for a meal.

The ghosts appear as soon as he’s alone, with no whispers of warning this time, and they’re so close, confined within the boundaries of an invisible hotel room. They scream, maws wide and the sound unending, even though he never takes his eyes off of them.

How quickly he plucked them from the world, how the fire within him burned brighter and hotter than he could ever remember. He’s sure it’s retribution for their abrupt end- not even a moment for them to pray to their gods.

When Hanzo returns, he’s sobbing, holding his head and tucked into the smallest corner he can find.

The dragon is quick to act, but understanding of his state, learning from the past - do not _grab_. “Jesse,” He soothes, coming to sit close beside him. “Jesse, let me hold you.”

The cowboy nods and Hanzo quickly maneuvers him to sit between his legs, Jesse’s back pressed against the dragon’s chest. A hand tends to him, pulls his hair away from sticking to his tear soaked cheeks, and the other wraps around his waist, holding him firm to the archer.

“Is this okay?” He asks, voice low and soft, followed when gentle shushing when Jesse trembles and his voice catches in a hiccup.

“I’m sorry,” The gunslinger finally manages, breaking a hole in his dam of silence. “I’m sorry.” He repeats.

Hanzo pulls him tighter, curls his legs so that Jesse’s crowds himself and makes the gunslinger as small as possible- he tries to hold all of him as best he can. “No,” He says firmly. “You do not need to be sorry.”

“You didn’t sign up for a mess,” He weeps, hands grabbing at the arm around him and holding it steady, making sure it won’t let go. “I won’t bring nothin’ but trouble and I-” He chokes. “Somethin’ ain’t right in my head and I can’t ask you to keep tryin’ for someone like me.”

The archer hums, keeps smoothing his fingers through Jesse’s hair, sways from side to side so slowly that it hardly feels like they’re moving at all. “You did not ask, and you will never have to ask. I will not leave you.”

Vulnerable, raw and torn asunder, Jesse sobs in the dragon’s hold that doesn’t falter. It never slacks, never threatens to let go of him as his firestorm of emotions burns out of control.

Over the overwhelming rush, trying to piece everything together in his mind, he hears Hanzo murmuring to him. Familiar words of praise, spoken so softly and honestly that they break him down and build him up in one foul swoop.

‘ _You’re a good man._ ’

“Tell me about the cabin.” He finally manages on a caught breath, calming down. His body shakes, but not nearly as much as it had before and the hiccups of desperate gasps have faded.

Hanzo, through it all, never stops caressing his face, his jaw, never stops humming dulcet tones in between his words. “I meant everything in it.”

“You bought it.”

A beat. “I did.”

Jesse draws in a deep breath, holds it and waits to release it gently, focusing on the arm around him as much as he can - his center. “Why?”

“I intended to spend the rest of our days there.”

“Our?”

“Just us.” Hanzo nods and presses the briefest of kisses against the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Only us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smooches to Aki for editing this monster of a chapter; what a trooper <3
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	10. The Hanging Tree

The morning is heavy, a low fog settling over the Watchpoint and casting a haze through the bones of its inhabitants. The sun tries valiantly to break through the clouds and cast its rays in the windows, but the fog keeps it and its warmth at bay.

A gentle beat steadily wakes Jesse.. He slowly comes into the world, still exhausted from arriving back at the Watchpoint late the night before, weary from the waking nightmares and panic attacks. The cowboy doesn’t dare try to get up, not yet, pleased by the slumbering dragon resting atop him.

Hanzo, after seeing Jesse to his room and into his bed - a lonely, single person cot with worn down carpets, and yellowing wallpaper - hadn’t walked away this time. The man had crawled on top of Jesse at the gentle beckoning of the gunslinger, using his chest as a pillow and sandwiching Jesse between himself and the mattress.

The soft murmurs - “Sweet dreams, Jesse.” - still linger in his ears as the gunslinger wakes.

He runs his fingers through inky locks, his thumb gently brushing the fans of grey as he passes them, and listens to the late morning’s song.

The waves are a constant, but the fog has silenced the birds until the sun can greet them once more. Lúcio’s music from two doors down rises and falls in crests, synching with the crash of water against the cliffside. With the birds quiet, he can hear it clearly, how the young man carefully changes the tempo to line up perfectly and fall quiet when the spray crescendos.

A tune of nature, something to soothe away aches and worries. Even through walls, Jesse likes to imagine that it’s helping him.

The dragon stirs, stretching and pressing his nose underneath Jesse’s scruffy jawline. “How long have you been up?” He asks, voice low and drawn out by the lingering pull of sleep.

“Not long.” The cowboy responds.

Hanzo falls quiet, content to enjoy the sounds around them just as Jesse is. His hands soothe against a rumpled shirt, flattening down its creases and folding a popped collar into its proper place.

Jesse wraps one arm firmly around the dragon’s waist, and feels a sigh flutter against his jaw. With every touch, the wandering hands fidgeting with his clothes are soft and kind. Inviting, but patient. The archer doesn’t impose, yet revels in every affection returned.

But Hanzo stares at him, frowning.

“Hanzo?”

A hand cups his jaw. “I would like to spend all day with you like this,” The dragon smiles when Jesse brings up his own hand to cover the archer’s. “But we have a meeting and I need to go change.” He looks down at them both, still dressed in what they arrived in.

The cowboy nods mutely, unsure of how he’s supposed to respond. Unsure of what happens next with them.

Hanzo smiles at him, a small thing that dazzles Jesse and chases away the fog that muddles his head. “I should like to request you sit with me-”

“Why?” There is always a condition.

The dragon blinks, furrows his brow and leans in close so that their noses brush. Jesse wants to steal a kiss, but he doesn’t think he can handle anything after that- he doesn’t take the risk.

“No particular reason. You are…” Hanzo bites at his lip, tries to summon the defining word he has for Jesse. “Wounded. I ask for nothing from you, but I wish to be here when you need me. And I will take no offense when you do not.” The dragon grabs both of the gunslinger’s hands, pulling  them into the small space between their hearts. He doesn’t kiss Jesse, instead dipping his head to the side, pressing their cheeks together and letting out a huff.

Curiosity, weeks of wondering brought to the forefront of Jesse’s mind with the repetitive action. “Why do ya do that?”

Hanzo stills. “Do what?”

“The face thing.” Cheeks rasping against his knuckles, his shoulders, his own face. It clearly means something.

The dragon pulls back suddenly, looks embarrassed. “I will cease if it bothers you.”

“No!” Jesse says suddenly, and then softer, “No, just curious is all.”

“Marking.”

“Do ya mean-?” The incriminating words hang heavy. _Mating marks_.

Hanzo shakes his head quickly. “No, no. This is for protection.” He hums, “The scales on my body leave visible marks,” Mating marks. “But the ones here,” He brings Jesse’s hands to his face just as scales ripple out of the skin to greet his touch. “Leave more of a scent than a scratch.”

“What do I need protection from?”

 _A lot._ His mind supplies loudly. From the world to himself, there’s so much out there that will try to end him.

“Nothing you cannot take care of,” The dragon’s faith in his strength and abilities warms him, lets him know that Hanzo does not fault him for his moments of weakness. “It is… a warning really. To other creatures.”

Jesse tries to ignore the notion that there is more beasts of myth out there than just the dragons. He forces his focus on the here and now with Hanzo. “What’s the warning?”

Hanzo surges up fast, gets in his face, eyes flickering blue with a flash. “That if they hurt you, if they do you wrong,” His lips curl in a snarl as he speaks. “I will hunt them down and I will kill them.”

Chilling, certain, terrifying. But Jesse’s chest wrenches at the thought that someone cares to defend him, to tell the world unseen in a single gesture that he is worth enough to protect.

He grabs for the dragon, pulls him down against his chest and holds Hanzo close. He’s relieved, someone gives a damn about him and he tries to convey how much that means to him by tightening his embrace on the archer. Even when Hanzo squirms, makes excuses about  needing to change before the meeting, Jesse renews his hold on him and smiles.

-

The moment he steps into the meeting room, it falls silent. This is the first of these that he’s been permitted to participate in. The impromptu trip to Madrid had been a risk in more ways for Hanzo than it was for Jesse - the timing cut close to this very meeting where Hanzo was to be present, and if discovered, it was Hanzo’s job on the line for helping out the _traitor_.

Spying the archer immediately, he notices the chair empty beside him at the large table, Hanzo’s tattooed arm slung over its backrest. Claiming it for Jesse.

Just as he’s about to go for it, Hana latches onto his arm and drags him to the back of the room where a row of less comfortable chairs sit. She shoves him down into one without a word and plunks herself next to him.

“Hana, what-”

She shushes him, eyeing the people closest to them before whispering harshly. “Lay low. Ms. Amari came around asking for you yesterday, and Angela couldn’t find you. They’re suspicious, even though they won’t say it- well… Torb will actually.”

Jesse slides low in his seat, tucks his hat over his face.

“But then again, what doesn’t Torb say?”

His snort is loud, draws attention until Hana curses - likely in her native language - and elbows into him. To outsiders they’re joking about something rude or mundane, but Jesse is slowly feeling panic creep in.

He feels warmth settle in his chest when he notices Hanzo staring.

The gaze is deterred only when Winston takes front and center with a cough. “I’m glad you all could make it. We have a few files and mission briefings to sort through, so let’s begin.”

Jesse settles in to ignore the whole thing as Winston speaks. He’s not even sure why he’s here; he’s not a member of Overwatch and they’re sure as hell not going to send him on missions. He hasn’t shot a gun (that they know of) in nearly three months and hasn’t trained with anyone or even been allowed to watch the drill simulations. Putting him on a team would be asking for disaster.

Still, his presence had been insisted upon, begrudgingly, by Winston. The scientist was still wary about his presence, and especially the prevalence of it in Mercy’s medlab.

It’s a lot of hoohah passed around the room, an illegal institution still trying to operate by the book.

“-we already have a four man team set to investigate the increase in gang activity out on Route 66 and a sniper has been requested for cover.”

Jesse perks up, listens closely. Gang activity and Route 66, two terms that spell out his business when put together.

“I have been busy following a lead on Talon- they should take Mr. Shimada.” Ana says curtly, sincere and honest just like Jesse always remembered her being. She was upfront, unafraid to pull punches when it came to the job, and she meant every word of it if she had her hands tied.

Winston hums in acknowledgment. “And this is alright with you?”

The cowboy looks up just in time to see Hanzo nod and something plummets in his chest, right down to his gut. He doesn’t want the dragon to leave him- if the ghosts come, who will he run to?

“You should take Jess!” Hana chirps loudly.

All eyes, including said cowboy’s, turn to her. Jesse can feel the tension shift in the room, less worry about the missions, more hostility toward him and concerns about how close Hana is.

The scientist has a diplomatic answer. “We need a sniper, not firepower, Ms. Song.”

She laughs and jabs at Jesse’s shoulder. “Not for the job, for some fresh air! He’s getting mopey.”

“And he knows the terrain better than anyone. Knows all the hidey holes where a gang might be shacked up.” Reaper adds in, from the opposite corner with Zenyatta beside him.

He should be upset that he’s being volunteered for a job, should sneer and shout that Reaper - Reyes - _Reaper_ is lording his skills out there like a pimp on the streets of Vegas. But all he can think about it how relieving it would be to stick close to Hanzo and be away from the base.

An argument among the members starts up, but he ignores it in favor of locking eyes with Hanzo who stares at him once more, assessing. The archer looks hopeful that he’ll come along.

“I wouldn’t mind a vacation.” He says, voice raised enough to drown the harsh tones of others deciding his fate. Jesse is free - with no Talon, there’s no threats of torture or reconditioning - he can make his own decisions and fight back when others try to tell him no.

Hanzo stands, determined to make sure no one does him wrong. “I will keep an eye on him, you need not worry.”

-

Jesse laughs when the team - Reinhardt, Torbjörn, Tracer, Lúcio, and Hanzo - wants to see if The High Side had any rooms available, entirely ignoring the Deadlock Rebels graffiti on the side of the building, freshly redone.

Hanzo was the one to notice first, though he was discreet about it, pulling Jesse back and whispering low. “I have seen that before.”

The gunslinger, chuckles. “‘Course you have. It’s right above my ass.”

The choke and sputter from the archer was more than worth the chance of being overheard by the others. He takes the wheel so Hanzo won’t bust their sordid weeks together and open a new can of worms for the others to shove their fingers into. “Fellas, ya don’t wanna be pokin’ around in there. Deadlock’s not so big anymore, but they’re still lurkin’ around like coyotes.”

“Where do you suggest we stay then?” Torbjörn snaps at him.

Jesse juts his thumb over his shoulder. “The Cave Inn. Miss Maddie is downright terrifyin’, Deadlock ain’t never bullied her into the ring. More stubborn than a bull.” He lingers when they begin to head for the front, throwing them his best smile. “I’ll uh… I’ll hang back here and wait. Miss Maddie might be a bit eager to put a bullet in me for old time’s sakes.”

Hanzo waves them ahead before they can protest about leaving him alone, turns to Jesse with a flash of blue in his eyes. “I do not know that I could face her knowing she harmed you.”

The cowboy draws out a cigar with a laugh. “Nah, I deserved it. I was a little shit. If it makes ya feel any better, I put a few in her as well.” His grin wide and toothy around his cigar as he lights it. “And Les and I still got away with the cash.”

He fondly remembers the moment he fucked up, Leslie’s whistling bird calls were always too lifelike to be good alert noises. He thought it was the chirp of a mockingbird, but it was a warning: Miss Maddie was back and she was about to catch him with his hands in her cash box. A knife skirmish and some gunshots later, two scrappy fourteen-year-olds slinked away with the cash and some wounds.

To Jesse’s surprise, Hanzo untucks a tiny silver case from within a pouch on his belt, sliding it open and plucking a long, thin cigarette from it. He chases after the lighter in Jesse’s pocket, as if it were commonplace between the two of them, deft fingers finding it quick and easy, lighting the end before returning his attention to the gunslinger.

“Didn’t know you smoked, feel bad for not offerin’.” He jests.

Hanzo smiles into a plume of smoke. “Occasionally- socially one might say. It is a good cover for my… condition.” Small wisps of smoke between stolen kisses, sparking with the electricity that runs like a current through the archer. “Especially when I am with you.”

Jesse casts a sidelong glance at the dragon. “Well, ain’t I just special.”

“I suppose you bring out the best in me...” His grin turns smug, mimicking the one Jesse casts. “Or should I say, the b _ee-_ st.” A beast, two beasts. He stresses the ‘e’ turning it into a terrible play of the word.

Before he can properly react to the pun, Lúcio comes out and waves them down. A room has been procured.

The dragon stubs out his barely worn cigarette, and plucks the cigar hanging from Jesse’s mouth and doing the same. “Come, let us see the room.”

-

Bored.

He’s so damn bored.

Jesse McCree, gunslinger, bounty hunter, former Blackwatch agent, ex-Talon, and a man who’s being courted by a dragon, is bored. One would think all these things would never leave a dull moment, but here he is.

Bored.

The team hasn’t left to go find the gang activity, though they’re all fairly certain they know where it’s located primarily if the bar fight from last night is any indication. Gunshots, revved up hoverbikes, and shattering glass. Ah, the memories.

But the team lingers, Torbjörn argues against leaving Jesse alone in the motel, Tracer insists it will be alright and they need to get a handle on the situation before whatever gang is around figures out they’re here.

Jesse snorts; _whatever gang_. There’s only one gang around these parts, always has been, always will be. Blackwatch had tried to take everyone out or lock them up, but the Deadlocks were crafty and if memory serves him right, Ma Deadlock’s daughter never came through the system.

Wouldn’t be far from Daughter Deadlock to keep up the family business.

“We are leaving.” Hanzo draws his attention to the present. The man waits for Lúcio to go out the door before leaning in close and brushing their cheeks together. “Will you be alright alone?”

Jesse smiles broadly. “Sure thing, just gonna enjoy the quiet, nap a bit. Y’know, general lazy ass things I do every day- just in a different location.” The archer hesitates so Jesse waves him away. “Go on, they need a sniper. Keep an ear out for bird calls… birds don’t fly here anymore.”

Finally, blessedly alone, Jesse waits. He has to make sure no one is coming back for last second items or because it turns out the whole thing was a bust.

After an hour, he grabs his bag and heads out the door.

His feet take him to a familiar spot, past the signs for the Panorama Diner, the open mineshafts in the canyon walls, and out behind Big Earl’s. The land is barren, but he doesn’t need any markers. Jesse shoves his fists into his pockets and stalks to the edge of the gorge, wincing when he scuffs some pebbles over the edge- how many people had they brought out and scared the daylights out of by dangling them past the ledge and threatening to let go? How many of his brothers and sisters, haunted by ghosts, had thrown themselves from the edge?

Jesse sighs and plunks down onto the ground, patting at the flat ground beside him. It's softer dirt than most of the area, patches of grass easily take root and sprout- he always assumed it had to do with the runoff from Big Earl's. “Heya Les, been a while.” He mutters, digging into his bag and pulling out two beers. He pops them open and sets one on the ground, brings the other to his lips for a good drink.

The wind whips up from the gorge, kicking up dust into his face before settling.

“I know you’re angry at me, I know. But it’s been real hard getting just about anywhere I wanna be these days.”

The winds die down, less dust, but it still pushes his hair around.

“Ain’t been in nothin’ but a series of different colored cages since you left. Funny how you’re the one flying free, Canary.”

The wind abruptly knocks his hat off and he laughs, scrambling for it.

“Alright, alright. I know you always hated that name. But look, nothing will ever be as bad as Deadeye Deadlock. Dead Dead. Double Dead.” His own name, too aptly appropriate given how he never missed and how his eye was useless for days after using his ability.

The wind shifts directions, pushing his hat back to him.

“‘Sides, it fit. Your chirpin’ in the mineshafts saved our asses enough times.”

The wind dies down. And to think Jesse had almost let himself believe that he could still talk to his best friend, that Leslie was in the wind. With a snarl, he grabs the other bottle and downs it.

He wasn’t expecting the butt of a gun to the head.

The muzzle is abruptly jammed against his temple, the blossom of pain making him yelp and dribble beer into his beard. “What the fu-”

“Y’all know you’re a wanted man in these parts, Deadeye.” A woman’s drawl croons as heavy as the boot that shoves him over. The gun isn’t far behind, shoving his face half into the dust above Leslie’s grave. “Or ain't it Jesse McCree now?”

He glances up, sees long red hair in a braid and tan skin turning pink from the sun. But nothing makes him mistake the gap between those front teeth. “Daughter.”

The gun presses harder and she steps on his hip, leaning over him. “That’s Winnie to you, pig. I ain’t been a daughter in a long time.”

She fumbles for something, a piece of paper that takes some time to unfold with one hand.

“Jesse McCree, wanted Dead or Alive.” It’s his ticket. “Charges includin robbery, assault, mass murder. But ya see, they forgot ‘treason’ and left out the part about killin’ families.” She snarls, leaning onto the gun, digging his face into the ground. “Ma and Pa did everythin’ for yer sorry hide. Even after you killed Les- you killed their baby boy and they still treated you like kin!”

Jesse flinches, clenches his eyes shut.

“And y’done did it. The second you saw us strugglin’, you turned on us. You let Ma’s death mean nothin’! She put us all in that back room and told us to hush, she died makin’ sure her babies were okay but you ran out there and went to the very people who _mowed her down_!”

He waits for it, knows her finger is on the trigger just waiting to send him straight to hell, right over her brother’s grave.

“See,” Her voice is calm, sudden and frightening. “I’ve wanted to put a bullet in yer brain for years, Jesse. But I noticed that your price has been goin’ up and up and up so I did some diggin’.”

The gun disappears, but her boot leaves his hip to take its place against the side of his head.

“Death would be a blessin’ to ya at this point, wouldn’t it?” She seethes, voice low and taunting. “How many more have died ‘cause of you?”

He makes a choked noise, finally tries to writhe out from under her hold.

Winnie’s laughter chills his bones. “That’s what I thought.” She spits on him, vile and nasty with the smell of tobacco making him cringe.

She finally releases him and he jumps to his feet, grabbing a beer bottle to defend himself with. It’s still half full- or it was, the liquid spilling down the outside of his pants. He’ll deny to the day he dies that he’s shaking.

The redhead rolls her eyes at him, flips her rifle around and whips him in the knee with a crack. It sends him to the ground on his other knee and she’s quick to close in and grab the back of his head by a fistful of hair.

“Your love ain’t nothin’ but a death sentence, Jesse McCree.”

-

Jesse makes it back long before the team returns from their mission, spends the few hours alone lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and focusing on nothing in particular. Tears creep from the corners of his eyes occasionally, but he’s too numb inside to feel why they continue to fall.

Everyone he’s ever loved - His dad, Leslie, Ma Deadlock. Gone.

The door opens, and then abruptly shuts. He hears muffled whispers exchanged before it opens once more and two people enter. He takes his eyes off the ceiling for just a moment, sees Hanzo leaning by the door, watching him like a hawk, and Lúcio is gathering a few items before taking leave of the space.

Hanzo’s face turns to anger, which is all Jesse needs to see before he focuses back on the blank, off-white paint above him.

“I came back earlier.” Of course he did. “I wanted to check on you, make sure you were alright.” _Of course he did._ “But you were absent.”

Jesse doesn’t respond, prompting the archer to come closer.

“I did not tell the others… just like Madrid, you must have your reasons.”

“Why do ya think Leslie got shot?” He asks. “I swore I’d gotten a handle on it by that point. But he jumped in the way and I shot him.” Jesse glances over to Hanzo again, finds the dragon’s face growing soft, but not with pity. “I thought I shot you.”

“You did not.”

“I could’ve.”

A hand brushes his face, combing through his hair. “But I am here.”

Jesse blitzes him, grabs and pulls so fast that the archer yelps, but he can’t bring himself to care. The dragon falls into the bed with him, wrapping around him as best he can. Their legs tangle together, their arms intertwine, there’s no space that doesn’t go untouched. Hanzo rests his head on the gunslinger’s, lips pressed against his head.

“You are injured.” He says, threading their fingers together and pulling him closer.

Jesse laughs dryly, ignoring the sob that hitches forth at the end. “Ran into some old friends.”

Hanzo hums, kisses gently at his temple where the bruise has already formed. By tomorrow it will be an ugly dark purple and he’ll tell people he tripped, getting used to the new knee.

“All you have to do is say the word, and they will hurt you no longer.”

But the damage was already done. His sentence was already written.

-

The time is approaching midnight when Lúcio comes back inside.

Hanzo is leaning against the arm of the ratty couch, legs stretched across it with Jesse nestled in between. The cowboy’s knees are hooked over the opposite arm as he sleeps, one hand clutching desperately onto his loose black hakama.

The dragon drags his gaze up from his book- something about dreams, murder and talking cats- he has not paid much attention for the last several pages if not the entirety of the book. He levels Lúcio with a scowl before grunting softly in affirmation that yes, it is alright to come inside.

“He doin’ okay?” The young man asks, setting his pack gently on his bed. He follows with a soft thump and starts peeling off his shoes.

_Protect him. - What does he want?_

Hanzo bends his leg and hikes his calf across the gunslinger’s belly, a measure of comfort. Putting a piece of himself between Jesse and the outside world. One of his thumbs scratches against the inside of the book, contemplating how much he should say, how much he should keep.“He has seen better days.” He returns to his book.

Lúcio pads over, thumbing away on his phone. “I haven’t ever seen him not lookin’ pissed at somethin’.”

His closeness has Hanzo suspicious, his grip on his book tightens and rather than focusing on the words, he watches the musician through his peripherals. Just enough to catch him aiming the phone at Jesse. “Do not.” He hisses, pulling Jesse closer. The cowboy grumbles and shifts, turns and pulls at his clothes a bit more before settling. It’s enough to give him pause and relax his hold, if only slightly.

The young man holds his hands up defensively, open palmed. “I just wanna send a picture to Hana. She worries about the guy, figure she’d like to see him all…” He sweeps a hand over Jesse’s form.

_He is sincere. - This gesture is small, innocuous._

_Remain wary. - Keep him safe._

“Very well,” He acquiesces, watching carefully as Lúcio snaps the photo and taps out a message.

“Man, she’s gonna love it.” He laughs, heading back over to his bed. “Won’t ever let him live this down.”

Hanzo pauses, the words partially set him on edge- while in the same breath saying it’s paranoia.  He rolls his eyes at himself before reaching down to scratch gently at Jesse’s beard, soothing down the mussed hair. The cowboy murmurs something and noses into the contour of his hip, seeking out comfort in his sleep. The sight warms Hanzo’s heart, makes it swell near to bursting.

_I remember. - Do not let him forget._

_He will be safe here. - He is loved._

-

The watchpoint is eerily quiet.

A few agents are out on missions of varying sorts- protection, escort, and recon. There’s very little life to the base, everyone is fending for food themselves and keeping themselves entertained for the most part.

Jesse whistles a low tune to fill the empty space as he makes his way down to the shooting range. Hanzo had invited Jesse upon finding out that the gunslinger still had no access of his own, shared his codes. He was insistent, especially after Madrid and the Deadlock Gorge, that McCree have some way to keep his skills up to par. A date, they called it. Hanzo flushed at the word and Jesse felt a sense of ease because he didn’t dread it. Nothing felt amiss.

The feeling lingers, easy and calming, casual as if he’d done this every day with Hanzo despite all that had transgressed.

Jesse enters swiftly, afraid of being tattled on like a child if he lingers too long, and finds the range empty. He supposes that’s normal, Hanzo is likely at one of the long-ranges further in, somewhere he can truly make use of his bow.

Patting Peacekeeper at his side, he starts for the back.

But a loud clatter draws his attention and suddenly a flare of vibrant green blind him. Hands grab his arm, drag him around and corner and behind a pile of empty crates. The cowboy struggles against the hold until two firm hands press on his shoulders.

“Shhh!” The person hisses. “He’ll hear you.”

Jesse sucks in a breath. “Who-”

One of the hands moves from his shoulder to his mouth, silencing him. And then he hears it.

Heavy footsteps, carefully measured. A pause between each set to listen closely to the sounds around them. “ _Pajarito_ ,” A dark voice croons. “You know there’s no running.”

The gunslinger takes the moment to assess who is keeping him restrained, and it doesn’t take long after he realizes that bright green running lights pulse in time with the footsteps. Each thud causes a flicker, as though the body next to his is measuring everything from the sound.

And it very well might be, after all, Genji’s body is highly sophisticated.

And “why are you naked!” Jesse hisses. By human standards of course.

The cyborg kicks at him. “Hush!”

Another loud clatter from across the room and Reaper cackles. “Ah, the other way.” There’s a gentle whoosh followed by another singsong “ _Pajarito~_ ”

Genji waits a beat, pops his head up and laughs. “Oh thank god, I think he found Zen- we’ve got a few minutes while they’re busy.”

“Busy with what?”

Jesse flattens himself against the crate, keeps the little distance between himself and the cyborg. He’s on edge- waiting for the punishment, the hatred to come for the attempt on Genji’s life.

“Probably more flowers, those two go way back- further than us even.”

Zenyatta’s tale flickers to the forefront of his mind, a strung-out commander at the end of his rope.

Genji drops back down, crouches before the gunslinger. “Long time, no see, Jess.” He gives a mock salute. “When was the last time, Milan?”

“Istanbul.” A chase through market stalls, ending in a rundown building that was too soon painted with Jesse’s blood.

Genji snaps his fingers, tilts his head - a gesture of a smile without the facial movement. Familiar. “That’s right.” He appraises the cowboy, his visor tilting up and down for Jesse’s sake. There’s no reason the cyborg needs to let him know that he’s being looked over, could keep his head still, but he telegraphs his motions, clear as day.

He pauses at the arm, his prosthetic, which Jesse quickly tries to tuck under his serape to hide it from view.

“Your arm.”

“Cool, ain’t it?” He deflects quickly, chuckles without an ounce of humor behind it.

He can almost imagine Genji’s brow pulling together underneath his face plate as he leans forward, putting two and two together. Two: the last time they fought ended with Genji slicing into his side and Jesse’s arm had been in the way. Two: before that altercation, Jesse’s arm was flesh and blood. Four: Jesse’s arm was missing because of their fight.

“I-” The cyborg’s voice crackles and waivers. “I thought they would heal you.” It, the wound.

“I did too.”

What he doesn’t say, can’t say, is that Talon was well and able to… but they had chosen not to. Without a prize in hand, they refused to treat him. The bleeding was easily managed, as long as he didn’t twist too badly, the bandages around his torso held the wound shut. His arm was a bit harder, still had to be used and occasionally the healing gash reopened and oozed anew. He lost the feeling in his fingers pretty quick.

It didn’t take a genius to know that yellow was not the color the bandages should be turning.

Infection settled slowly, but the gangrene came on quickly, and it was only after Jesse dropped from a rampant fever, system going septic, that they decided to do something about it. They told him he would’ve been long dead. It was miracle he lived, or perhaps damnation depending on who’s eyes you viewed the situation from.

There’s distress on his face, written in the tension of his shoulders as Genji continues to stare.

They cyborg takes pity on him, thankfully it’s not the sort that leaves him to be coddled, but rather accepts that it’s a subject best left alone. Genji leans back but reaches over and lightly punches at his opposite shoulder, “It is very cool.” He agrees.

Voices draw their attention, a deep murmuring followed by what is possibly the lightest of laughter.

Genji tilts his head in the opposite direction, running lights pulsing and reminding Jesse of the way Hanzo’s glow ripples across his scales. Was the design of the lights in such a way on purpose, a by request?

The cyborg pops up from their hiding space and jogs away. “You gave up, huh?”

Jesse peers around the corner of the crate, spies Reaper - Reyes with his mask in hand and arm-in-arm with Zenyatta who stands beside him. The omnic spots him back and waves.

“Ah, my two students.” He says jovially, pleased with both of them being present.

Reaper’s attention snaps up to him and the man has the gall to look exasperated. The image strikes a memory of old days, when he and Genji would get up to no good. “I’m not alive enough to deal with this again.” He says.

Jesse huffs. Tries to ignore the elephant in the room that’s been following him around the last couple years, apparently..

But Genji laughs, throws his head back and presses a hand to his chestplate and feigns innocence. “I promise we didn’t trap your office this time.”

A sharp gaze levels at the cyborg who remains unphased. “I don’t believe you.” A wicked smile tugs at a half burned lip. “Old habits die hard.”

“Don’t expect me to drop and give you twenty, _Commander_.”

Zenyatta pats at Reaper’s arm before leaving the wraith to continue with the younger Shimada. The omnic approaches Jesse and tilts his head- a mimicry of Genji’s gesture, a smile. “What brings you here, Jesse?”

Jesse furrows a look away to the back of the facilities where Hanzo is likely waiting for him. “Meeting a friend for some target practice.”

The name is unspoken, but Zenyatta likely knows- he always knows, it seems. He offers Jesse his arm, “Come then, it would be rude to keep them waiting. I will walk with you.”

The cowboy takes the offered arm, and leads the way to the longer shooting range. Or at least, he thinks he’s the one leading, he can’t be entirely too sure when Zenyatta keeps an exactly even pace with him- no trailing behind, no pressing ahead.

“You look better.” Does he?

Jesse grunts. “Thanks.”

“The dragons are patient.” Zenyatta suddenly speaks.

The cowboy jerks a bit from the statement, surprised that the omnic would know. But he supposes, it only makes sense, after all he’s Genji’s teacher - and if Jesse’s own trust, as fragile and skittish as it is, can be placed in the monk’s hands, it’s only natural to assume that Genji also places his trust in him. “That so?”

“Normally. They wait years for what a human of average patience can only wait for weeks.”

Jesse sees flashes of bared teeth and angry words, feels hands that grab his arms too tight, the sudden blossom of Deadeye. His arm tightens in its loop with Zenyatta’s, the bite of metal into his side pulls him to the present.

“Except for Hanzo. He has at least told you of his condition, yes?” The omnic pries and Jesse responds with a curt nod. “He - the dragons - are not always in agreement. Talking to himself, the two pieces of him are working things out, and even then it does not come easy.”

Jesse halts and his companion stops automatically, still right beside him. “What’s this gotta do with patience?”

“Sometimes the war continues on the inside, wears his patience thin. He often lets his temper get the better of him.” Zenyatta pauses, gathering his thoughts. “He came to me; despite what I might think of him due to the closeness I have with his brother, and sought out my help.”

Jesse ducks his head, he knows exactly when Hanzo must have gone to the monk, and meanwhile the gunslinger had been neck deep in a bottle of liquid comfort.

“He seeks to be better, something Genji tells me that he’s never admitted.” This time, Zenyatta does lead him, gets the cowboy moving once more. “It is my belief that Hanzo desires to be better for you.”

“Me.” There’s no question in that simple word.

They arrive at the range and Hanzo looks up from collecting arrows. He gives a short wave before resuming the chore.

Zenyatta laughs and releases Jesse’s arm. “Something to keep in mind, Jesse: there are two inside that man. He will burn twice as hot when he is angry, but he will shine twice as bright when he is happy and he will love and protect twice as fiercely.” He pats the cowboy’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Enjoy your training.”

The gunslinger’s insides twist and writhe violently, like a serpent coiling around his heart and squeezing its hardest.

The ache is eased when Hanzo finally gets close enough, smirking at him as if he intends to play a game- the barest hint of teeth. “I was afraid you would miss our date.”

Jesse flusters, but manages to reign himself in. “Wouldn’t dream of it, partner.” He returns, drawing Peacekeeper and beginning to check it over.

Hanzo chuckles. “I have a proposition for you- a challenge if you will…”

-

It was to be a recon mission, a one-man job but Hanzo insisted on dragging Jesse along, told Winston and the hawk-eyed Ana that he wished to keep the cowboy’s skills in check, so that he wouldn’t be as green as a newborn when they finally decided to officially send him on missions. It was a simple recon mission, so they agreed and the two of them hopped on the next flight to Canada.

It was _supposed_ to be a recon mission, in and out...

But as soon as they get off the plane in Ontario, Hanzo drags Jesse to another gate, producing two tickets as they speed along. The cowboy tugs back slightly, confused, but the other man doesn’t let go. His hand slides down from the jostle, and the firmer hold comes from clasped hands.

Hanzo glances over his shoulder, down at their hands, and back up, prepared to let go if Jesse demands it. If anything, Jesse grips tighter.

They make it to their connecting flight in the nick of time, it seems, groups being called to board and Hanzo rushes up to check in and assure that their seats are still theirs. To the dragon’s visible relief, Patrick Turner and Thompson Hooch still have their seats.

Jesse lets out a whistle once they begin to make their way down the loading ramp, hiking his bag higher up on his shoulder. “Turner and Hooch,” He comments with a small laugh.

The archer’s cheeks become dusted with pink. “It is a good movie…” then quieter “And I have always wanted a slobbery dog.”

Something about the image - of the collected dragon, elegant in appearance and regal in his gait, standing with a large mutt by his side, drool hanging from folds in the dog’s face - makes Jesse bark out a laugh. When the noise is met with an embarrassed glare, the cowboy stops and pulls the archer closer to him. “They don’t make films like they used to.” There’s still space between them, and Jesse feels the itch to close it. “And a slobbering dog is a great choice.”

Hanzo’s face lights up, turns a deeper pink, but he smiles. “A Bloodhound.”

“A Boxer.”

“A Mastiff.”

“A St. Bernard.”

If there was any image Jesse wanted to keep in his mind forever, it’d be the one Hanzo looks up at him with, delight, pure and simple happiness. Jesse can’t help but smile back, swept up in the infectious look, determined to keep it going for as long as possible. Now more than ever, he wants to kiss that smile.

A flight attendant ushers them along, breaking the moment, but Hanzo doesn’t let go as they board.

Settling into their seats, Hanzo hardly waits a second before turning to the cowboy. “From a rescue.”

Jesse nods. “Of course, give a good pup a loving home.”

“Beethoven.”

The gunslinger’s heart feels near to bursting, his stomach flipping because what are the chances? How could a man, a dragon - two dragons - be so beautiful, deadly, powerful, and patient, yet choose to be close to Jesse, even when the cowboy is so flippant in returning his affections. How could such a man do all of that, and then reveal himself to be fond of old movies, dog movies. “He’d have a giant backyard at the cabin.”

Hanzo grips his hand impossibly tight, barely keeps the rippling of scales under control. The cowboy feels it in the whole body shiver that racks the archer and sees it in the way his eyes flash bright vibrant blue. He turns his head away from the aisle. “I would have to scold you for feeding him scraps under the table.”

“Under?” Jesse laughs, reciprocates the squeeze of hands. “I’d give him his own damn plate. He’s such a good dog, he deserves it.”

“Beethoven is spoiled and attention hungry like someone I know, certainly.” The dragon teases.

“Can you blame a fella?”

Hanzo huffs, raises the armrest between them and turns to lean into Jesse’s shoulder. “I suppose I cannot.” He responds.

An easy silence washes over them as they wait for take off. They watch the world fall away through the window and the dragon falls asleep shortly after. He can’t pull his gaze away as a land of clouds roll by, the sun cresting and turning everything a blinding, but beautiful white.

It nearly breaks Jesse’s heart to have to wake him up when they land.

-

Montana. The cold bites a bit harder, even with the low afternoon sun, but for the most part the air is still and leaves it tolerable. For Jesse at least, who feels fine and warm under his serape. Hanzo is not so lucky, drawing up the neckline of his top and burying his face in the enclosed collar.

Jesse bumps him with his elbow as they hail a cab. “I thought dragons were supposed to be warm- y’know, fire and all that.”

The archer fixes him with a look, meant to cow those beneath him but it draws a flutter to Jesse’s chest- a challenge. “If I were a dragon of fire perhaps. However, as I am sure you noticed, I am born of the storm.” He bumps back, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“Never would have guessed.” The gunslinger quips, chuckling when the dragon rolls his eyes. He bumps their sides together again, gently, fondly. “Hey, I like storms.”

A smile, perhaps not as bright as the one Beethoven had brought, but still a wonderful sight.

They climb into the hailed cab, their bags sandwiched between them.

“So what’s here in Montana?”

Hanzo spits out an address to the driver before giving his attention to Jesse. “I made a promise to someone, and I intend to keep it.”

The ride is quiet, and somewhere along the way their hands find each other in the middle. A thumb brushes over the tops of Jesse’s knuckles and the cowboy plays with the glove on the archer’s right hand, nails lightly catching on the leather hem and occasionally slips beneath to feel the scales hidden there.

They enter a quiet little suburb, nothing flashy but nothing in squalor either. Middle class, lawns mowed but not perfectly manicured. Children play on a public playground, parents sit around on benches and chat - a close community.

Jesse is on edge, unsure of his surroundings. Why the cover of a recon mission? Why not just ask for vacation time and why drag Jesse along with him? He wants to ask Hanzo, but before he works up the proper words, the car comes to a halt in front of a quaint one-story.

Hanzo pays the driver and they get out. A flash of curtains across the street draws his eye, a nosy neighbor wondering who’s here and why. Hell, even Jesse is still wondering why.

A beat-up blue truck sits in the driveway, nagging at Jesse’s mind. Something familiar stirs, but he can’t place it, can’t tell where the memory of climbing up in the bed of that truck comes from.

Hanzo leads, walks swiftly up to the door and the cowboy stays hot on his heels, clinging to familiarity that is comforting instead of the disconcertion he feels over the vehicle. Three quick raps on the door and the world falls away as they wait.

“Comin’!” A deep voice bellows from inside the house, quickly followed by loud footsteps approaching at a brisk pace. The door swings open and Jesse’s stomach plummets as the large man that greets them and whistles.

“Well I’ll be damned.” He steps back, motions for Hanzo and Jesse to come inside. Panic settles in, Jesse doesn’t want to be here anymore. The man looks the gunslinger over, crossing corded arms and scrutinizing every inch of Jesse. Dark eyes, so reminiscent of a photo Jesse used to hold dear, seem to pierce right through him. After a moment, he turns and calls out into the house.

“Ma! Your baby’s home!” And Jesse flinches.

“Long time, no see, Baby J.” The man slowly eases closer, gently puts his arm over Jesse’s shoulder - the gunslinger always was the short one - and pulls him in for a side-hug. “Heard you been keepin’ busy.”

Something in him cracks and Jesse turns, embracing the man who returns it readily, strongly. He won’t let Jesse go, even if the sharpshooter wanted loose. Familiar arms, familiar eyes, passed from their father- his brother.

He revels in the contact, ripped away from him so long ago. It’s been decades since they took his brother away from him, decades since it was just Jesse and his mom, left on their own.

“Thank you,”

A softer voice, one that makes Jesse’s body seize. He can’t face her, he’s afraid she won’t be real, afraid his love will kill her on sight. But his brother’s not having it, prying Jesse off of him and turning him to face the woman who raised them, the woman Jesse killed for, and the woman Jesse left in the dust when he ran from home.

She hasn’t aged a bit.

Jesse’s knees nearly buckle but he stumbles over to her, wraps her small frame in his arms like she used to do for him so long ago. The smell of cloves comforts him in a thick wave of nostalgia, causes him to hold her closer. She’s murmuring something to him, spanish, but he can’t hear it over the rush in his head, over the strength he’s putting forth not to cry. “Ma,” He chokes out.

Her hands, so sure of her son and so willing to be gentle to a scoundrel like him, rub at his back. “ _Mijo_ ,”

“Ma, I’m lost.” He breathes shakily.

She shushes at him, pulls back to cup his scruffy face in her hands, solid, and catches his eyes. “You found your way home.” She looks over his shoulder. “Mac, make some of your good cocoa, would ya?” His mom asks before maneuvering the both of them to the couch. Not a second passes that she breaks Jesse’s hold on her. “Come, sit with us.”

It takes a moment for Jesse to remember that Hanzo’s there, but he’s acutely reminded when a hand alights on his knee and squeezes. A gentle reassurance of the dragon’s presence.

He only lets go when Mac returns with the cocoa, placing two mugs on the coffee table and then fetching two more for himself and Jesse’s mother.

His mother brushes the hair from his face and smiles over at Hanzo. “Mr. Shimada, I can’t thank you enough for bringin’ him here.”

The dragon smiles meekly, ducks his head into taking a sip of the cocoa. “Family is important.” He says with a finality, but Jesse can hear the underlying hurt. An archer who’s family abused his nature, who forced his hand one too many times. Family, taken away. “And please, Hanzo is fine, Ms. Mitxel.”

His mother chuckles, raspy with age, but Jesse is warmed by the sound anyways. “If we’re gonna play that way, Hanzo, it’s Nolli.”

It’s mindless words, lost in translation along the way to the gunslinger’s brain, but Jesse could care less. He’s still reeling at the fact he’s home; his mother’s care evident in how she links their arms and refuses to let go, his brother refills his mug when it empties, and Hanzo is beside him, just close enough to touch down the length of their arms but not enough for there to be any pressure behind it.

“-Joel.”

The gunslinger’s head pops up and he looks between Nolli and Hanzo. “‘M sorry, what now?”

Nolli smiles at him, as if this weren’t the first time she was seeing her son face to face after he’d run away. After he joined a gang, stole, murdered, and became a tool for a terrorist organization, hunting his friends. “I said: I hope you aren’t givin’ this sweet man too hard of a time, Joel.”

The name smarts, decades of disuse. “Don’t call me Joel.” He gruffs angrily.

Nolli pinches her brows together and frowns at him.

“It’s Jesse.”

Mac decides to pipe up then. “We named the dog Jesse.”

The dog, he loved that dog. A sweet old rottweiler that’d grown up alongside Jesse. The gunslinger shifts uncomfortably, shrugs out of his mother’s touch. “I’ve been Jesse for a long time now.” He shoots back at his brother.

“Oh I know you have,” his mother’s voice is steely, serious and demanding his attention. Hanzo finally presses to his side, reminds him that the dragon is there for him. “I’ve seen the news. I should have chased you out of here with a broom, boy, for all the heartache you’ve caused me.” She reaches up, grips his chin harshly in one hand, a different kind of forcefulness behind the gesture when their eyes meet this time. “A mother shouldn’t have to figure out if her child’s alive by seein’ his wanted signs or his face on ‘ABI’s Most Wanted’ every other week. I had to watch you grow up through mugshots.”

Jesse looks away, can’t stare into those eyes for too long. Disappointment and pity brimming in her gaze.

“Mijo, I thought you were dead when you stopped showin’ up on those programs.” She sounds beaten, weathered by the storm he’s caused in her life. “But this nice man comes around, says he might be able to find you, _help you_ , and instead of telling me what you’ve been doing, you come in here and get rough at me for usin’ the name that I gave you?”

“Sorry, Ma.”

“No, it is your name- you are free to change it.” She shakes him a little until he focuses on her again. “But you can correct me without such a hostile tone when I have welcomed you, my criminal son, into my house without so much as a threat to call the cops.” She sighs, leans in and kisses his cheek. “You are my flesh and blood and I’ll love you no matter what you wanna call yourself.” She laughs.

“And Baby J still works.”

Jesse breaks from his mother to grab a pillow from the couch and hucks it hard at his brother.

-

There was only one guest room because _of course_ there’s only one guest room- his mother didn’t expect to have hoards of guests.

It’s no problem, really, it wasn’t like he and Hanzo hadn’t slept in the same bed since they’d begun… whatever it is they have going. He’s afraid to give it a name. The only thing that stops him from climbing into the bed immediately and falling asleep is that he can’t, for the life of him, find his pajama pants and he’s not about to climb into the bed naked.

Hanzo has the good graces to offer up a pair of his shorts and though they’re a little tight around the waist, they’ll do for the two nights they’re here.

Jesse laughs at the print - green medieval dragons that breathe fire and stick their tiny tongues out are patterned all across it. The archer is quick to point out that they were a joke gift from his brother, but the faded colors tell of a well loved garment.

The dragon climbs into bed, holds the cover up and Jesse is quick to slip in behind him, encircling the other man. They fit together neatly, not quite perfectly, not something that romance novels describe, but they do mesh.

The gunslinger slides his hands around Hanzo’s waist, pulls him close and sighs into the embrace. He’s just about to sleep when he hears it, a gentle murmuring from the archer. A sound that Jesse isn’t quite sure he’s hearing until he also feels the minute reverberations of Hanzo’s chest against his.

It takes a moment, but he realizes Hanzo is talking to himself.

‘ _The two pieces of him are working things out._ ’

Jesse squeezes closer and the murmuring stops abruptly. “Sorry,” The cowboy apologizes against a pale shoulder, burying his face against it.

Hanzo wiggles, adjusting himself so that they face each other, close, so close. Jesse wants to close the distance, wants to kiss the dragon, but he knows that would be taking from him- preventing him from saying what he needs.

“I-” Hanzo croaks and then stops, looking unsure. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself even though Jesse has him, will catch him if he plummets here and now. “I never apologized.”

“What fer?”

Strong hands slip down the gunslinger’s shoulders and grip at his upper arms, careful of his claws. “You were- are dealing with your own ghosts. You were hurt… and I hurt you more.”

“Hanz-”

“No.” The dragon is firm, silences him with a sharp look. “I wanted you to trust me, but I gave you no reason. And still…” His grip tightens. “Still we are here. You have allowed for me to hold you, and you still consider a future in the cabin- you have been far more forgiving than I deserve.”

“Can I?” The archer nods, tangles their legs together. Jesse brushes Hanzo’s hair back, thumbing at the fans of grey. “You’re right, what you did…” Sent him into a panic, still makes him freeze up if he thinks about just how angry Hanzo had been. “But I understand- it don’t make it right, but it makes it… easier to move past. I couldn’t bring myself to just let the situation go- I’ve had worse done to me, and it- I pushed ya.”

“You had every right to push me away.” Hanzo says quickly.

Jesse nods. “I sure as hell did… but I didn’t have to be cruel. Chasin’ you out of public spaces, givin’ you lip and the stink eye at every turn- we’re adults, I coulda been civilized.” He sighs. “I got a mean streak, had to get one to survive, and you didn’t deserve to have me take it all out on you- it was a mission, you were just doin’ your job.”

Hanzo grips his chin, thumbs at his beard in time with the broad strokes Jesse gives his hair. “My mission was to detain you and bring you back. Not once was…” The cabin, the sex, the tears. “That was not part of it. I wanted, curiosity turned to greed, and I wanted a hoard starting with you.” He hums. “Do you know what I dream of, Jesse?”

“What do dragons dream of?”

The archer chuckles. “Warm places. I dream of palaces unlike home, made of crystal, clear where I can see the waters crash against every wall and see my reflection in it’s calm. I dream of silk flowing with, yet somehow untouched by the waves, long strings of beads and shiny pearls. All of it to myself. But when I had to prepare for my mission, find information on who you were, where you were, I began to dream of a cowboy perched upon a throne at the center of my palace, where a throne had not existed before- the crowning jewel.” Hanzo shimmies up, tucks Jesse’s head under his chin, wraps his arms over the gunslinger.

The cowboy huffs into the embrace, lets himself be lulled by the safety he knows is there. Nothing will touch him here, the  dragons will make sure he rests easy.

“When I saw you, you were just as I expected. But when we spoke, when you told stories of maps and guns and you buried those men and showed that there was more to you than the villain they cast you as,”

The dragon pulls him tighter, _hoards_ him closer.

“You are far more radiant than I ever dreamed.”

-

Mac drags Jesse out of his bed the following morning- there are no encouraging words for him to wake up to, but there are hands around his ankles and a booming laugh before he’s abruptly yanked from the bed. The cowboy flails, tries to kick at his attacker until he suddenly realizes who it is, remembers where he is. His brother - his mother’s home.

Hanzo grumbles - “Stop yelling.” - and burrows underneath his pillow.

His brother loudly whispers an apology and jabs Jesse in the shoulder with a jerk of his head. The message: get dressed and come out here.

Once alone, Jesse concedes and starts dressing. With his back to the bed while he buttons his pants, he doesn’t see it coming, but man does he feel it. Cold hands grab his hips and pull him back into the bed, making him jerk and yelp.

Dragons swarm him, crawling over him, claws gripping into his skin like a cat kneads at a place to sleep. “Hanzo,” He chides when the dragons rub their faces against him.

“Stay safe.” - “Be careful.” He says together, his voices blending the words.

Jesse smiles, reaches up and scratches behind the small antlers of one of the dragons. “I’ll keep my head low, just for you.”

Hanzo purrs loudly at the words, pressing harder against Jesse as he rubs. “Come back to me.” He pleas in stereo.

“Of course, but I can’t come back if ya don’t let me leave.”

The dragons huff, staring down at him before they leave him, tucking underneath the pillow that Jesse had been using during the night. An idea strikes the cowboy as he buttons up his shirt.

He opens the blinds and sets to work, wrapping blankets and Hanzo’s pillow into a small nest at the foot of the bed. Definitely not as finely crafted as the one in the cabin, but it will do. Jesse hums and approaches the pillow that the archer is still hiding under and delves his hands beneath it. He feels around until he’s sure his hands are underneath the dragons and he lifts them and the pillow with one heft.

The indignant cries of the dragons make him laugh as he plops them right into the nest, the pillow sandwiching them.

One dragon pokes his head out and Jesse can’t help but scratch under his chin, warmth suffusing his chest at the way Hanzo presses into his fingers for more. “Be good.” He chuckles, grabbing his hat and quickly slipping out the door.

Mac is waiting for him in the truck and gives him a shit-eating grin. “Your boyfriend will be fine! Ma won’t eat him, promise.”

Jesse turns red. “He ain’t my boyfriend.”

“Sure, Baby J. Whatever you say.” The larger man puts a hand up in a mock salute as he pulls out of the driveway. “Y’all were sleepin’ awful close for ‘not boyfriends’.”

“And you’ve never slept that close with someone?”

Mac shakes his head. “Nah, I have. But I don’t get all,” He holds his hand up and twists his fingers together, an imitation of their bodies most likely. “With ‘em. Hell, I didn’t even do that shit with my ex-wives.”

It was true, the constant touches they shared paired with the way they slept all wrapped up in each other went against what he denied. But it felt nice, felt right and Jesse could rest easy that way. No nightmares in sight. “We’re just real close.”

“Alright,” He conceded. “Far be it from me to judge that shit.”

The silence gnaws at Jesse as they drive on, unsettling with the absence of Hanzo. He considers texting Hana, but a brief check of his person reveals that he left his phone in the room. “Why Montana?”

Mac laughs under his breath. “Fuck, I forgot- you were so young. Dad’s tribe is around here.”

“That don’t explain why my Ma’s here… and why you live with her.” Different mothers- no drama, no betrayal, their dad was a good man with a heart of gold. A heart too big. One that loved so many.

His brother leans on the door, props his head up as he drives. “When Dad died… Me and the girls were sent up here, his brother took us in. Mom couldn’t afford to take care of us, but then again that’s why we were with Dad. Nolli was trying to come to us, but things were rough and no one bought that house you guys had, so she stayed with you.”

Jesse sinks in his seat. “Yeah, I remember all that.” Their yard perpetually had a ‘for sale’ sign out front, it always baffled him when he was little that no one else had that. Confused him even more when he realized that it wasn’t a common thing.

“Then you ran away.” The thing he’s best at. “She stayed there for two- closer to three I think… yeah, three years before she gave up the ghost. I think she saw your Deadlock spree starting, knew she’d never get you home again.”

It stings, a whip to his heart. His mom waited for him, hoped his sorry bastard ass would come home.

“The house still wouldn’t sell. I don’t think it ever really did, but me and the girls put up such a fuss about her, our uncle practically bought her the house. Just the four of us until Kimi moved in with her husband and Nat started travelling. Now it’s just me, Nolli likes the company and I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Jesse knows he left her alone, left her to wait for a son who’d never come back. Didn’t even write her to give her that finality. He just left it there, hanging like a bad smell. How many more years did she worry that Jesse would go back to the house in New Mexico and find it empty and abandoned?

“We’re here!” His brother crows, reaching over to pinch at his arm. “Smile, Baby J! Oh, and put these on.” He whips Jesse’s serape and hat from the back seat, shoving them into the cowboy’s lap. “You gotta look the part.”

He sputters. “Of what? The wanted man!?”

Mac laughs and slides out of the truck. “Of the cowboy. I’ll meet you in the front office, gotta make sure you get a nametag. Rules and all that.”

Jesse exits as well and begins putting on the serape, using the truck window as a mirror. Deeming the red swathe to be properly settled, he puts his hat on and finally takes stock of the building. ‘Sunset Elementary School’ sits high in bright red letters.

He hurries inside and finds his brother chatting with the receptionist. “Mac, I don’t think-”

“Here he is! Sorry to hit and run, Mary, but we have a lot to set up for the kids.” He says, grabbing Jesse’s shoulders and steering him out of the office. “I’ll give you a raincheck on those drinks!”

Alone, in the halls of a school, Jesse feels a sense of unease. “Mac, I-”

“Man, the kids are gonna love you, Baby J.” His brother pays him no mind and keeps talking, even when Jesse tries again, and another time, to get his attention.

He finally snaps and wrenches from his brother’s hold. “Machk!” The sudden seriousness in his brother’s face is clear. “I shouldn’t be here.”

The larger man rolls his eyes. “No one’s gonna recognize you, and I teach kindergarteners. The worst they’re gonna do is go home and tell their parents that they met a real life cowboy. They won’t even care about your name- oh, here.” He peels a sticker off and presses it to the outside of Jesse’s serape. In scrawled, red marker is the title ‘Mr. Yellowrowe’. “I say brother and they assume we have the same name.”

“I’m no good.”

Mac puts his hands on his shoulders and steers him backwards as they continue, ignoring Jesse’s protest. “You’re plenty good, Baby J. Just been in some shitty situations. That ‘not boyfriend’ of yours, he knew it. He came around asking questions and when we asked why he cared, he told us things didn’t add up. Told us you were in some dark shit and it didn’t make any sense, didn’t line up with the stories from Nolli or your friends.

“One look at you, and even Mr. Didn’t-Smile-Until-He-Brought-You-Home-To-Us knew you had a good heart.” His brother drives the point home by poking his chest, hard, making the gunslinger stumble through an open doorway.

Jesse huffs and accepts his fate, but not without shooting a glare at his brother.

“Hey, perk up. You have to be a great model for my show and tell. Look, I even have a horse.” He laughs, throwing a small brown stick-pony at Jesse. “Giddy up, partner!”

Jesse sighs again. It was going to be a long day.

-

The sun sets early in the winter months, even hardly past five o’ clock , everything casts a long shadow. Hanzo drinks his coffee, decaf with a splash of honey so he can enjoy the flavor but avoid the buzz, on the porch swing out front. The balls of his feet barely touch the ground when he sits back, and any sort of movement sends the suspended bench into a soft swing.

“How long have you been waiting for them?”

Nolli’s voice surprises him, but he schools his face to avoid showing it. He is courteous enough to give her a nod as she takes a seat beside him. She chooses to be close, not touching him, but not a stranger’s distance.

“A bus full of children passed at three o’clock.” He notes, but he doesn’t give her a straight answer.

The woman chuckles, a rich sound, much like her son’s though a higher pitch and worn with age. The smoothness is genetic it would seem. “Mac leaves work about five, he should be home any minute now.”

She graces him with silence as they wait, taking in the relative calm of the suburbs while he can. An orange glow casts over the neighborhood and surrounding hills, and the crickets begin to get bold with sharp repetitive chirps here and there. It sings of a life easy to slip into, hard to pull out of.

He jumps when a hand comes to rest on his shoulder; her palm is extremely warm, and even through his turtleneck, he can feel its heat.

“Hanzo,”

The dragon looks to her, finds her face open and earnest, tears pulling at the corners of her eyes, end of her nose turning red- the same way Jesse begins to cry when life overwhelms him.

“Thank you,” She says. “You brought him home.”

Hanzo smiles back, lips tight. “Nolli-”

“I know he can’t stay. But you brought him back, even if only for a little bit. Thank you,” She reaches for his face, draws him down to kiss at his cheek. He allows it. Her affection is a mother’s, embracing in all capacity. Strong and unyielding. For her son, the world. For the stranger who brought him home, her home. Nothing she wouldn’t give for the people in her heart.

Hanzo smiles just a bit tighter at the kiss, feels a twinge in his chest and preens under her caring touch. It gives him echoes of smaller days when less weight was on his shoulders. She loves Jesse, she would still protect him at all costs and for that, Hanzo will protect her. As she pulls away, he catches her hand and rubs his cheek against the back of it, a small scent lingering with cloves. “I made a promise.”

She laughs, rubs at her hand as he pulls away, warmed by what must be, to her, a strange gesture. “You did so much more than you promised,” She makes sure to have his full attention, squeezing his knee. “You made him happy, Hanzo. I don’t know what you did, but I haven’t seen my baby boy look as bright as he does beside you since before I married my ex-husband.” The one Jesse shot, the abuser.

The archer’s gut roils thinking about the man who would strike and yell at this woman, would terrify a little boy and cut them off from who they are. But there is nothing he can change about the past, he can only affect their futures. “He brings me happiness as well. More than I can hope to express.”

A treasure beyond words.

Mac’s blue truck drives up, and Hanzo’s gaze quickly falls to Jesse in the passenger seat. Tear tracks and a red nose with his lips pursed in a scowl. His jaw moves- chewing the inside of his cheek.

Hanzo stands quickly just as Mac hops out of the truck and juts a thumb over to his brother. “He’s all yours.”

“What happened?” He asks, wanting to know what type of Jesse he’s walking into. Is it one who’s seen ghosts or one who’s been scared witless by the hapless hands of a stranger.

“Kids. They know a good man when they see one. Spent all day playing with him, loved him to death.”

It’s a Jesse stunned in a reality where he doesn’t believe he deserves kindness.

Hanzo approaches the passenger’s side, taps on the window and grabs the attention of sad brown eyes in return. Just a glance. He opens the door and the second he’s available, Jesse’s arms are wrapped around his shoulders. It makes it difficult to unbuckle the wounded man, but the archer manages.

Seatbelt off, it makes it a hell of a lot easier to lift the cowboy.

No one is present to stop him, Jesse’s family have graciously left the path empty for him to carry the gunslinger to their room. He places the man on the bed, deconstructs the nest and tries his best to rebuild it around Jesse, even using Hanzo’s own pillow for his head. Jesse’s scent had been comforting in the hours after he left, and he wants Jesse to have that same comfort whether he’s able to smell it or not.

_What do I do? - What should I do?_

_The dragons? - Or the man?_

Hanzo ignores the urge to split and pile on top of the man, a weighted comfort, and heads for downstairs- perhaps he can get more information from Mac about what happened.

But he’s halted, a large hand squeezing at his wrist. Tired eyes look up at him, plead with him just as much as words do. “Stay?”

He nods, automatic and without hesitation.

_For Jesse, anything. - For Jesse, everything._

Hanzo doesn’t change, the gunslinger wants to be held and burrows eagerly against him as soon as the archer has wiggled his way into the poor excuse of a nest. Jesse would have done a much better job building it. “Would you like for me to wake you for dinner?”

Jesse shakes his head, holds onto Hanzo as best he can. “Am I good?”

The dragon’s heart thrums. Both serpents yearn to rend for the pain that something so intangible has caused for his mate. His most cherished, so deeply hurt that something as simple as ‘good’ can break him. A word meant to praise and bring happiness, but only has Jesse questioning himself and what he stands for.

Hanzo gently holds his face meets the gunslinger halfway, and bumps their foreheads together. He clenches his eyes shut, wills himself to stay as one, keep together for Jesse. “You are so good, Jesse. A good man, a good friend. A good-” He chokes on the word, stops himself from admitting that Jesse is his mate and always will be. The cowboy needs time, needs to address _them_ on his own. Hanzo cannot overstep that, not when it could threaten what Jesse is already trying to heal. “-a good man.”

Minutes of silence go by, but Jesse’s words are the first ones to break it, a desperate plea to convince Hanzo that he isn’t good.

“I shot Jesse.” He makes a pained sound. “The dog.”

Hanzo slips a hand into his hair, plays with the thick brown mane. “Tell me.”

“I was practicin’ with a BB gun, even wore goggles to be safe. It started happening before I knew it, got real hot- thought it was the sun, but it was me. It pulled in, and in the moment it waited, I saw two things.” He shudders, pulls himself closer, trying to disappear. “I saw a mockingbird, and I saw Jesse chasing it- just out of the corner of my eye. And when everything stopped hurting… I saw what I did. A bird and a dog who weren’t a threat to me lying stiff on the ground, and all I could think was: ‘What if it could happen to Ma too?’” He steals a glance up at Hanzo, “So I ran. I couldn’t shoot her if I couldn’t her.”

The archer, stills, heart cracking from the hitch in Jesse’s throat before he starts to sob. He is not used to the ache in his chest, holding so much care for another, but the archer would give the world to make his pain go away. Such an extraordinary, fascinating man, and yet so haunted.

“How can you believe I’m good for anything?”

Hanzo kisses the crown of his head. “Because you are.” His hold tightens. “You are a good man, Jesse McCree. Do not let anyone make you doubt that.”

-

_The room is stark white, a hospital, but it is warm. There are flowers abound, cheerful yellows and reds with a smattering of his husband’s favorite colors- baby blues and vibrant purples. None of them will make it home._

_Visiting hours long are over, the lights are dim but the room is illuminated by the early sunrise filtering in through the window, and the shadows are met with a soft, blue glow._

_Jesse’s face crinkles - coughs - but manages to smile. He turns his head to the side, brings the hand in his to his mouth, kissing each knuckle. His husband, ever youthful, smiles and returns the gesture, runs his thumb over each of his bones and traces the spidery veins trailing down his wrist. He hums something that the old gunslinger can’t quite pick up, but his husband follows his words with another kiss to his hand and an affectionate rub against scaled cheeks._

_“Take care of Beethoven, he’s got a few left.” He says, weakly squeezing his husband’s hand, and promptly ignores the flash of pain that snaps through his eyes._

_His husband says something again, words loud but not registering in Jesse’s mind._

_Still, he speaks in return. “I’m sorry I couldn’t last a few more.” But at least he’ll have the dog to keep him company until he finds another. “I love you- I love you so much I can’t explain it.” His heart hurts to leave him, but it will happen. He has days, a week if he’s lucky. They’ve known for a long time now._

_But nothing will ever prepare him for knowing he’s leaving the dragons - his partner - his husband behind._

_A violent clatter of quick, light footsteps interrupts them- and another flash of blue catches his eye, but all he sees is a flash of gold behind the break in the hospital curtain._

-

Jesse wakes up in a panic, heart hammering wildly.

“Jesse,” The voice sounds so far away from him.

His hands reach and search for Hanzo’s spot in the bed, for his partner. Feeling nothing, he curls up- alone, so alone.

Hands quickly find him, dragging on his skin and unfolding him. “I am here, Jesse. I got us some food.” He takes scruffy cheeks, brushes away his tears with his thumbs, and smiles when Jesse finally opens his eyes to look at him. “It was a nightmare. You are here, you are home.”

The cowboy takes his hand, kisses at each knuckle, brushes the lot of them against his upper lip when he’s done.

Everything collapses together, a singularity composed of just them.

The patience, the devotion. Hanzo has accepted so much, helps him with everything when the world bears down on him and leaves him with nothing.

Hanzo.

Hunted him down for god knows how long and dragged him back to where he can be loved again, without Talon’s thumb bearing down on him.

Located his most precious items, left buried and to be forgotten. It couldn’t have been easy to locate them.

Fought tooth and nail against armed men, bled for him, kept him safe when his armor started to crack- over and over.

Hanzo.

Jesse pulls the man to him, uses his strength to drag him on top. Food be damned. He cups the archer’s cheeks and draws him in for the kiss he’s been dying for.

Their lips press together, slow and tender but part quickly and smoke streams between each break for breath. Hanzo glows, scales rippling violently across his skin in such a vibrant shade of blue that it shines through his black shirt- a thing that must go.

He pulls Hanzo’s up and off, quickly doing the same for his own and pulls Hanzo back down.

“Hanzo,” He says and claws blunt nails against his pale back when the dragon bites at his throat. “Hanzo, Hanzo.” The gunslinger hooks his good leg around his partner, reveling in the purr muffled against his skin.

“Jesse-” The archer makes a pained sound, pulls away and nips at Jesse’s hands when they try to drag him back down. “Jesse, I cannot- I am not-”

Patient.

The cowboy smiles and this time sweeps a hand through the dragon’s hair, pulls the tie out and smathers his cheek with kisses when Hanzo, so affectionate with touch, leans into his hand. “It’s okay.” A beat. “I want you, please.”

They meet together easily, a union of desire and neglected time. Jesse runs his hand through smooth locks of hair and claws grip at him, teeth mark a trail down his body, and they both rise and fall into each other.

They pull and tug at the sheets, wrapping and tangling themselves together with wordless murmurs and soft chuckles. The hands on his body are cool but they bring warmth to his heart and spin it deep in his gut. There’s only one thing, above all else, in this short time and in this small space, that matters.

Hanzo.

The dragons that lie off the edge of the map.

-

Early daylight washes over the kitchen, catching the corner of the table but not quite making it to the two men who sit, side by side. Their arms touch the whole length down, starting at the shoulder and ending in pinky and ring fingers hooked together.

Jesse, once more in the presence of the dragon, feels as though the world can’t touch him. Leaning into the man beside him whose lips curl at the edges of a coffee mug as he drinks, the gunslinger doesn’t worry. Not about Talon, not about his bounty, not about Overwatch.

Hanzo notices his stare, smiles into his next drink with lidded eyes. A wolfish expression, likened to devour him whole if given the chance.

And if Jesse has anything to say about it, there will be many opportunities for it in the future.

Unbidden, the urge arises and Jesse doesn’t resist, leaning over and kissing the archer’s cheek, lingering and basking in casual touches. Everything is so familiar, as if this had been their life for years- gentle mornings following sweltering nights. Supporting each other in a calming haze.

He pulls away just before Mac enters the room, groaning groggily.

A sick sense of joy, one that’s wholly unique to the younger sibling watching their older one suffer through a mundane but hard time, jolts through Jesse as his brother tries for a cup of coffee, only to find the pot empty. The taller man starts a new one, grumbling the whole time.

He turns to the two at the table, still pressed together. He looks down at their hands and tosses Jesse a knowing smile- thankfully he says nothing about it.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t guarantee his silence. Mac cracks a yawn as Nolli walks in, covering his mouth in a flurry like he’ll be chastised for forgetting his manners.

“Still tired, Maccaroni?” She teases.

The older of the boys nods. “I kept waking up- thought I heard someone crying.”

Hanzo snorts suddenly and violently into his mug, splashing coffee on his face which he hastily finds a napkin to wipe off. Jesse is beet red, clutches Hanzo’s two fingers harder- to his delight, the archer rearranges their hands into a full hold and gives a reassuring squeeze.

Nolli laughs, knowingly.

It does nothing to deter Jesse from leaning into the archer, in fact it encourages it, makes him drop his head against Hanzo’s shoulder and enjoy the way Hanzo presses back into him, relishing in the contact as much as he is. A dragon greedy for attention..

-

Nolli huffs as she strips the guest bed. Or rather, gathers the already stripped sheets, molded into a nest-like pile at the center of the bed- it still needed to be washed.

Her son was not subtle, but she smiles to think of them together that morning before they had to leave.

She pulls the case off of a pillow as she reminisces on the scene in the afternoon light. Hands together, glowing and happy. Something tender that has her nostalgic for her younger days. Her son, happy. And what a treat for a mother, to be so fond of the man making him that way.

The mother brings the other pillow to her chest and sighs wistfully, old and weak for romance.

She’s separating the sheets when it catches her eye, gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun.

The smallest, most delicate thing.

Of softly curled down, a young feather, made of spun gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE MOST LOVE TO AKI WHO HAD TO EDIT THIS FUCKING BEHEMOTH.
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	11. Golden Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the chapter: There is an explicit bit toward the end. Easily skippable, just stop reading after the message.

“I’m surprised you let me do this.”

“Well,” Jesse pauses, holds still as a stem of green is threaded into his facial hair. “You wouldn’t stop pesterin’ me.”

Hana stops, a small white flower pinched in her fingers, and watches his face carefully. Her gaze makes him uneasy, makes him shift in his chair- a simple wooden stool, only used to decorate his meager quarters.

“I can stop if you don’t wanna do this, Jess.” She offers, a kind gesture that reveals the concern in the pinch of her brows. Hana  thought she was forcing him.

Jesse shakes his head, soft as to not disrupt the small flowers embedded into his beard. “Nah, I’m a touch curious.” Glad for the company, and one spark of self-conscious wondering if he looked anywhere near as good as the models she sent him. Chiseled noses and cheeks, supported with scruffy beards that flourished with color.

He wants to bloom with life as well, instead of destroy it.

Hana quickly snags his attention, distracts him from negative thought, gets back in his space and resumes weaving flowers into his beard. She hums, quick and upbeat, swaying the lower half of her body in a shimmy with the tune.

Everything in this moment is calm, but alive and it warms Jesse to his core, reminds him that there’s still good in this world- the flowers and songs of people who make it a mission to bring smiles.

It’s refreshing, that this woman who’s fought in wars and witnessed ruin can dance and smile while putting small daisy desertstars in a wanted man’s facial hair. She wears her strength in quick wit and nimble hands, a feat in his eyes considering he’s seen less trauma forge crueler men.

“Oh, one last thing!” She coos, “Close your eyes.”

He doesn’t hesitate to shut his eyes. There’s a quick shuffle in a plastic bag before something is placed on his head. It rests gently on his hair in a halo formation. “Did you make a crown?”

She laughs, tweaks his nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Sure did. You wouldn’t be complete without it.”

Her phone pings and when he opens his eyes, she’s tapping away at the screen, a stern expression on her face. “What’s up, Han?”

“A bunch of dead omnics in the Lijiang market- they want a few of us to go investigate.” Her mouth twists into a frown when she receives a response. “Might be some dead civies too. They can’t tell.”

Jesse sees it in the draw of her shoulders, memories of flesh and metal strewn and mingled on the battlefield. She’s more of a soldier than he ever was, front lines, up close and personal. The sight haunts her still and it’s likely to never stop.

He looks away, tries to give her some form of privacy while she weighs her demons: does she go to prevent another war, or does she stay away from horrors that remind her of home. A choice Jesse was never able to make, hit after hit while under Talon’s control.

The sun hangs fat and low in the sky, casting deep and rich oranges across the base. From his small window he can see the back end of the outdoor training range, hanging over a cliff face and supported by metal struts. If he squints he can see a few figures and tries to guess who they are.

The one jumping and doing all manner of acrobatics is Genji, no doubt to that, and the figure equally mobile, but moving in blinks is Tracer. Jesse wonders if he and Hana should be down there training as well; she might get reprimanded for not being present and he might get chewed out for distracting an official agent.

“Woah, Jess, I didn’t know you dye your hair!”

“Whuh-” He mutters unintelligibly, grabbing a hank of hair and trying to peer at it from the corner of his eye. It’s just long enough that he can glimpse the ends. “I don’t.”

Hana purses her lips and shrugs, gaze flicking between him and her phone. “Must be a trick of the light.”

Illuminated by sun, the ends appear to have a red and orange glow. “Guess so.”

-

There’s a pounding in Jesse’s head- no, that’s a pounding at the door. Rapid thumps followed by a gruff yell, rinse and repeat.

He knows he needs to answer it, they don’t come his door without a good reason - they don’t interact with him without a good reason - but it’s hard to convince himself to do so. Especially when there are two heavy dragons crushing his face into the mattress, piled atop his back and purring gently in their sleep.

Jesse shifts and one of the serpents gives a sleepy chirp of protest, kneading claws that pry at his skin.

The knocking rings out again.

“C’mon darlin’, I gotta get that. And you gotta look human- ain’t many places to hide in here.” He coaxes, slowly beginning to rotate on the bed, dumping his lover’s coils onto what little of the mattress he doesn’t occupy. The other dragon wakes and cracks a yowl with a yawn, stretching his neck high until his ears twitch and he recoils with a shiver. “Hanzo,”

The serpents slowly unfurl, sliding off of his back and crawling underneath the covers. His size diminishes, the waking chitters growing quieter as he slips further into the bed.

Freed from the prison of the dragons, Jesse finally shifts out of the bed and tugs on some form of pants. They’re a little small for him, Hanzo’s, but the furious shouting at the door tells him that he doesn’t have time to change out of them.

The door slides open, revealing Jack, red in the face and furious. Behind him is Torbjörn, smug and angry all at once. “Nice of you to answer.” The ex-commander jabs.

“Sorry, musta been real worn out.” Jesse amends with a disarming grin, leaning against the open doorway.

Torbjörn huffs, crossing his arms and shooting a sneer at the cowboy. “I’d imagine so, what with all the noise you make.”

Jesse responds with a wink and a fingergun, there’s no room for denial when his body is covered in bites and scratches. “What can I do ya fine fellows for?” He asks, grinning broader when Torbjörn fumes silently.

“You’re moving out.”

The cowboy feigns dismay, throws the back of his hand to his forehead and slumps against the door jamb. “And leave my mighty castle? However will I live without my sprawlin’ courtyard and my naked statues?” The enraged flurry Torbjörn holds as he departs makes the long suffering sigh from Jack entirely worth it. Once the engineer is out of sight, Jesse eases back on the theatrics- he still holds some small kind of respect for the man before him. “Where am I supposed to go?” Being put out of his room was daunting, because his next stop could be the street or a cell.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your old room in the Blackwatch bunker, when you guys were stationed here. Not too many people to disturb with-” Innocently he tries to peer into Jesse’s room, “-whatever it is you’re doing. Whoever.”

“Oh.” Jesse says, dumb struck and then backs away from the door. “Alright then.”

The door slides shut between them, ending the conversation abruptly and giving Jesse the privacy to break into a wild grin.

“You are a troublemaker.” Hanzo says, popping his head from underneath the covers, a smile on his face from listening to the exchange.

“Someone ought to keep me in line then.” The cowboy chuckles, flops onto the small bed and kisses the other man, relishing the feeling. Acceptance, and a simple fondness for him and just him- no hoops, no tricks, just the both of them.

“Perhaps someone should.”

Hanzo leans into it, twists until he’s leaning over Jesse and his hair falls into a curtain that hides them from the outside world. He breaks with a satisfied smirk pulling at his lips when he sees Jesse’s flushed red face. He dives down for another, but this time it’s quicker, softer. “I am sorry I got you kicked out.”

“Naw,” Jesse slides a hand through his hair, detangles the inky locks with an easy smile. “Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout, darlin’.”

“But you are being forced to move-”

“To a better room.”

Hanzo pauses, stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “A better room.”

The sharpshooter grins wider. “Blackwatch was under the radar, nothin’ but secrets- but I’ll show ya what our best kept secret is. C’mon, help me pack.”

He slips out from under Hanzo and sets to work, jamming clothing and the few homely items he owns into his duffle bag. The dragon snorts at his rumpled clothing and pulls each piece out as it’s shoved in, folding and rolling them and then repacking. Neater, cleaner, more space.

The little amount of time it takes to pack up everything makes Jesse realize just how little he has here. Clothes, bathroom essentials, a kit for Peacekeeper’s upkeep, and a few books. The rest - the bedding, the lamp, the furniture  - was all part of the room when he got here. A hotel room for a vagrant, a man with no home.

They’re just about to leave the small quarters, the door ready to close behind them when Hanzo wedges his way back in and then quickly reappears with two pillows and the blanket tucked under his arm. “I doubt anyone will be using these any time soon.”

Jesse grins and knocks into his shoulder gently. “Now who’s the troublemaker?”

The Blackwatch bunker is nestled into one of the many rocky arches that make up the far side of the base- its bottom floor is a briefing room and just outside its doors is Hangar 18. There’s four floors total, though the top one is so embedded into the rock that it lacks windows, and there are many quarters on each floor. The blueprints say twelve, but Jesse knows better.

It’s eerie, quiet save for the hum of the fluorescent lights that line the narrow halls. It’s location on the watchpoint was intentional, keeping the rowdy - and often unliked - agents of Blackwatch separate from the majority of Overwatch. Low ranking agents didn’t need to know what they were up to, distance was the key to preventing unwanted nosiness, and the higher ranking agents didn’t care enough.

Jesse leads them to the second floor, tapping idly on the first two they pass and stopping at the third. “A lot of the doors are fake.”

“What do you mean fake?”

“Twelve doors, four rooms.” He chuckles. “We just had to give the illusion that these dorms were same as the others across the base- government bullshit. Didn’t care about it then, don’t care about it now. They wanted equal treatment between the two factions, but,” He thumbs in a keycode, careful to go slow so Hanzo can see it. “Gabe knew what we were doing was rough, got us some good setups for the work we did- a lot of the ritzier watchpoints had rooms like this.”

The door slides open and Jesse steps aside to allow the archer in first.

“The best kept secret of Blackwatch was the size of our rooms.”

It’s less of a dorm and more of a small apartment. Spacious, fitting a full sized bed, a loveseat, and a desk, the quarters still had enough room for a dresser and a bedside table. Two of the walls boast wide three paneled windows, thick armored shades cover them, able to be lowered and risen with a touch pad.

To Jesse’s surprise, some of his personal affects are still here- a small ashtray yellowed from use and old half empty bottles of liquor. He half-wonders if any of the other watchpoints around the world still had his mark left on them.

Sunlight filters through the large windows, warming the plush carpet and the air inside. Hanzo is quick to toss the extra pillows onto the bed and approach one of the windows, raising the shades and staring at the picturesque view of the sea.

“Jesse, this is-”

“All mine.” He dropped his bag just inside the door and wrapped his arms around Hanzo from behind, leaning down and resting his chin on the archer’s shoulder. “Ours.”

Hanzo reaches up, brushing the backs of his knuckles against Jesse’s cheek and the gunslinger turns to kiss at them, nipping playfully at the last one. “Ours.” The dragon repeats.

Jesse hums, nosing behind Hanzo’s ear. “What d’ya say we break it in?” He purrs.

Turning in the circle of his arms, Hanzo smirks at him, throwing his arms over Jesse’s shoulders and behind his head. “I thought I was the troublemaker?” He teases, easing one leg up and then the other when Jesse gets the hint to hold him.

“Mmm, nah. We both are.”

-

The weeks roll slowly and pleasantly by, every day Hanzo brings something new into his room- their room. Paintings brought by the archer hang on the wall, his clothes hang alongside Jesse’s in the closet, and every morning is blissfully begun underneath the warm quilt Hanzo brought in.

It thrills Jesse to no end every time he notices something new, allows him to think that this domesticity can last. That he can wake up every morning and make coffee in the kitchen, come back to share his cup and a smoke with the man who will choose him over everyone else. He likes to believe that this is how his life will end, coasting softly into the repetition of routine days- glued to the side of someone he adores and that shares the same sentiment.

He knows one day it will break, nothing can last forever, especially with the life he’s led, the life both of them have. But he revels in it while he can.

Hanzo disrupts the routine one morning, gone before Jesse wakes. That isn’t entirely unusual, there are missions to run and things to do besides stay wrapped up in each other all day, but what makes Jesse fret is a lack of knowing. The dragon is forthcoming about his duties, assures that Jesse will know where he disappears to so that he can easily be found should the gunslinger need him.

Worry gnaws at Jesse. Has something happened to Hanzo?

He tries to chase away his rapid thoughts, bundling up in Hanzo’s quilt and chewing at the inside of his cheek. It’s small, he knows- it hasn’t been more than a day but he’s not used to being alone anymore; being apart from the dragon. Days spent together have softened the gunslinger more than he’s ever willing to admit, anxiety easily blooming deep in his chest. His history still haunts him and his heart tightens with the notion that one day it might repeat itself.

Jesse’s fingers trace the stitching of the quilt, worn with age and love, stained here and there from years of use. It’s one of the few things of Hanzo’s that he brings from his past, something he shares with Jesse in bits and pieces. He wouldn’t leave it behind.

The door to his room suddenly slides open, and when Jesse pops his head out from the quilt, he finds Hanzo carrying in a rather sizable box.

Relief consumes him and he nearly trips and falls with the blanket wrapped around his ankles as he meanders to the archer. He knocks bodily into Hanzo, who knocks back before he lets himself fall back against the door.

Straddling the dragon’s side, Jesse curls and buries his face in his neck, gripping harshly at Hanzo’s shirt. “You didn’t leave a note.”.

Hanzo seems to understand and leans his head into Jesse’s with a soft hum. “My apologies, I had hoped to be back before you woke. It took longer than anticipated to get our package from the post office.”

Jesse shifts, glances at the large box out of the corner of his eye. Marked with stamps and other postage notifications, he can tell it came from overseas but not much more without a closer inspection. “Post office?”

“I cannot be giving the watchpoint address out, now can I? There is a post office nearby and I have one under a pseudonym. You may share it with me if you wish.”

Jesse nods, snaking an arm out to hook over Hanzo. “I’m sure my Ma would love to send me stuff, now that she knows I’m alive and kickin’.”

The archer chuckles, “She already has.” He moves to the desk, placing the box down. “Come, take a look.”

Set down, Jesse approaches the box, circles around it looking for more identifying marks. On one side he finds the return address, from Nolli Mitxel in Montana- sent to a PO Box in Gibraltar. Jesse looks up at Hanzo, furrowing his brows. “She asked you for an address?” And not him, not her own son.

“I gave it to her when we visited.” Hanzo explains, flipping out a small knife and cutting easily into the tape that holds the top together. “I told her that anything for you she should send there as well- I do not think they would let you bring in mail without thoroughly going through it first.” The archer pauses. “You deserve the privacy despite what they believe of you.”

“What if someone saw ya bringin’ this here?”

Dark eyes flash blue, a grin given with a glimpse of teeth. “No one sees me unless I want them to. As far as anyone is aware, I am in my room opening a package of imported goods.”

Despite his good intentions, Jesse’s chest squeezes tight and the words come tumbling out before he can stop them. “Are you embarrassed of me?”

“No.” Hanzo snaps, and then softer, “Never.” He finishes cutting the appropriate strips of tape and reaches for Jesse’s hand, bringing it up to his cheek and rubbing against it. “Why would I? You are strong- you continue to fight where others would have given up long ago. Many cannot take so much pain.” The dragon kisses against each knuckle before turning the gunslinger’s hand over and pressing his lips against his palm, making the barest scrape of fangs against calloused skin. “They use so many things against you already, I do not want to give them this as another weapon.”

“This.” Undefined, yet strong in its conviction. A heavy trial of trust tested lays behind them already, there is little that can bend or break _This_ between them.

Hanzo smiles at him warmly and then flips open the lid of the box. “Shall we?” He asks, plucking an envelope from the top of the contents.

Jesse recognizes his mother’s handwriting, after a youth spent copying her signature and numbers to forge on school documents, he can never forget the looping l’s and slightly crooked s’s. The paper is slid between his fingers in a silent urge to read it.

Unbidden, the gunslinger speaks his mother’s written words.

“My dearest boys,”

Hanzo pauses in his rifling through the box, looks up with wide eyes before he goes back to his task.

“It was so nice having you home, the place feels so empty without your ridiculous spurs jingling everywhere. By the by, scuff up my floors again boy and the next time you visit you’ll spend it polishing the wood.”

Jesse snorts, equal parts terrified of his mother’s threat and warmed by her desire of his sounds in her home.

“I sent a big gift package with two more personalized gifts as well-” The cowboy looks up just in time to see Hanzo pluck two smaller boxes from the large box, “- but the majority of it all is for both of you.

“I saw the pile of blankets and sheets you two left behind, so I sent all of the extra blankets I had stored in the attic to you. Better they get used by you than waste away.”

A large pile of crocheted blankets is pulled out of the package, soft earthy tones of yarn woven together in all manner of patterns. Zigzags, waves, straight lines, lace. Hanzo immediately plucks one from the pile and wraps it around himself, smiling while he continues to dig around.

“Sweaters for when it gets cold-” Overly large sweaters are pulled from the box, “Sorry about the size. I used Mac for reference- a mistake, clearly.”

Hanzo chuckles. “Your brother is a giant.”

Jesse rolls his eyes but nods in agreement, Mac was the great receiver of their dad’s height. “And something more sentimental, your old Ma still sketches from time to time and I so adored seeing you smile again, Mijo.” He looks up, sees Hanzo holding out and staring astonished at a picture frame.

Wordlessly, he passes it to Jesse for inspection. In rough pencil, shaded with crude methods, is a sketch of Hanzo and himself at the table, fingers hooked together and smiling- the morning after Jesse had finally accepted what Hanzo was offering him. It’s vague in some places, but it’s recognizable, a scene unique and vibrant in his memory.

The dragon plucks it back from him and tucks it against his chest, claiming the framed memory for his own.

“And some sweets, I don’t know if you still have your sweet tooth, but that man of yours sure does. Nearly went through my entire jar of sugar, that one.”

He looks up to see what sweets his mother sent and finds Hanzo trying to stealthily hide a few small bags behind the picture. Caught, the dragon grins at him and with no shame, slips the bags right into his kyudo-gi, patting at them from the outside of the garment. “You will not be getting any of these.”

“That’s what ya think, darlin’.” He teases, reaching playfully over the box only to have his hands swatted at.

Hanzo grabs his box and does what is best described as a scuttle to put distance between them. Safely in a corner, on their bed, and lengths away from Jesse, he pulls open a bag and tries to muffle his whine of delight at the contents. Pearlescent orbs, hard coated chocolates, the dragon rolls a few between his fingers, savoring the texture before eating them. The smile that pulls at his lips as he crunches through the candy shells is nothing short of ecstatic.

The gunslinger shakes his head at the archer’s wayward antic, a precious moment given when in the privacy of their room. No one beyond these walls knows how much the man loves sweets, no one could grasp the range of expressions his face could make. Secrets Jesse has privy to witness.

Jesse’s box is smaller, his brother’s scrawl the only note left behind.

‘ _Come back soon! - Machk_ ’

He picks at the tape until he can peel the ends up enough to open the slim package, and pulls out another photo. Only, this one isn’t a sketch from his mother.

Twenty-two little faces - and Mac’s big, dumb grin - beam at the camera. Cowboy hats, boots, spurs, gingham, jeans; all manner of cowpoke attire adorns the children and each and everyone has a stick-horse. Happy, smiling kids remembering him, hoping to see him again.

A choked cry echoes in the quiet of their room, but it’s not his own.

On red alert, he looks to Hanzo, finds the dragon with his face buried in a swathe of fabric that he’s pulling from his box, a letter crumpled in his fist as he holds it. Jesse can’t move fast enough to get to him, trying to wrap his arms around him like Hanzo always seems to do for him.

“Hanzo,” He says, vying for the dragon’s attention.

He gets it. Hanzo tucks into him, buries himself against Jesse’s chest and grabs at him with one hand- the other refuses to relinquish its grip on the crinkled letter and the fabric.

“Honey,” His voice is low, and what he hopes is soothing to the archer as he rubs circles on his back. “I’ve got you.”

Hanzo clings to him, sobbing in his unique way- silent, tearless, but wrenching  his body as to keep himself from splitting. It makes him shiver, grit his teeth, scales flickering in fluorescent blue, and he aches for hours after with how hard his muscles strain. It’s not pretty, there’s nothing elegant or graceful about the way the archer crumbles and it breaks Jesse’s heart when he knows there’s little he can do to help.

He’s woken up to this on a couple of occasions, Hanzo grabbing at him, shaking him awake because his demons coil around him in the middle of the night.

It’s easier now, he’s told, than when the dragon was alone for long years. Then, he was forced to deal with the pain on his own, combat the whispers of his wrong doings with no support. But now when it’s over, Jesse will massage the aches away and talk loudly over those whispers, ensuring the archer isn’t alone.

When the shaking subsides, mostly save for the occasional quake of sore limbs trying to right themselves, Hanzo speaks. “Family has always been… difficult.” He swallows around a thick lump, wrenches his hands into Jesse’s shirt. “Aside from Genji, it was a strict and heartless environment. Yes, my mother and father cared, but they never seemed to be satisfied with our performance. And the clan only cared for what I was and what I could be used for.”

The dragons, the murder of his brother.

“With Genji’s…” He searches for the word, “Return… I thought perhaps I could give ‘family’ another chance. I have, in a sense. Some of our fellow agents are endeared to me as maybe siblings and cousins would be.”

But it’s not the right kind, Jesse knows. There are conditions, there always are, the kind of family the agents of Overwatch make is one that can be lost with a few bad decisions. A woman who treated you like a son will treat you like the enemy when you’re part of the enemy.

“Your mother…” Hanzo pulls away from him, drags the cloth out of the box completely and spreads it over their laps between them. “She hardly knows me and yet…”

It’s a serape, navy blue with the pattern on the edges in a brighter blue and stitched with gold. Looking closer, they aren’t just any pattern, they are dragons, twining together to mimic the design on Jesse’s own serape.

Part of him worries - how much does his mother know about Hanzo? - but he takes a glance at the archer’s arm and relaxes. The tattoo is hard to miss, surely his mother picked up on it.

“She likes ya.” Jesse says, taking Hanzo’s gloved hand and pressing his thumbs into the tops of it. He works his way up the arm slowly, easing the pressure when the dragon flinches or putting more when he squirms from the tickling sensation of a too light touch. “She don’t like many people, always fought with our neighbors and my school teachers.”

“It is more than that, Jesse.” Hanzo pulls his arm from Jesse’s hold when he gets to his elbow and pulls himself into the cowboy’s lap. He presses his nose under Jesse’s jaw. “Family… she believes I am a part of hers.”

The gunslinger wraps his arms around him, lifts his chin to give Hanzo more room to nose around. “You are, darlin’. You’re part of mine.”

“Show me, then.” The dragon falls back, pulls Jesse with him and wraps his legs around the sharpshooter’s waist.

And who is Jesse to deny that request.

Forgotten goes the candy, the pile of blankets, and the sketch of a sweet morning.

Fallen by the wayside, never to be picked up and finished is the letter from Jesse’s mother.

‘ _One more thing, while I was cleaning the guest room, I found something strange. I realize we haven’t seen each other since you were small and there are a lot of things I’d still like to talk with you about. Please come back soon, I miss you both already._

 _All my love,_ _  
_ _Nolli_ ’

-

The time came when Overwatch wanted information from him. In all honesty, Jesse’s not sure why they waited so long, perhaps to make sure that there weren’t any trigger phrases overlooked. He’d been in enough of the large meetings, heard plenty of the technical jargon tossed around that it was more than likely safe to have him in a room, with mission phrases being said, without at least ten agents armed.

He’d given them all he had- codes for the facility he was based in, the location of the bases he knew about, and names of those on the upper ranks. They seemed disappointed, bored even, as he spewed all of that information, repeated tidbits from what Reaper had relayed to them. It was also useless, the bases would be empty, abandoned and cleaned out promptly after his escape. Talon didn’t take chances.

It wasn’t until he mentioned the cover identities that things got interesting. Mentioning Charlotte and Wilbur Bradenburg led to him being detained for the majority of a day, recounting any other covers he could.

It’s after dinner by the time they’re through with him, when he starts repeating names and mixing up cover stories. His list is more than a good enough starting point to dismantling the organization’s hold on the world, but Jesse feels that itch of wanting to do something more.

Tired and jittery all at once, he walks in a mindless haze to his room. He doesn’t think about his keycode, shuffles off his boots and clothes - at least he has half a mind to hang his hat up proper - until he’s in his boxers and flops unceremoniously onto his bed.

Any other day, he’d be alarmed and sympathetic to the shriek the bed gives when he lands, but he’s entirely exhausted and only manages to lift himself slightly.

It’s enough and two huffy dragons come crawling out from underneath the covers. Hanzo noses at him, purrs and dives for his hand which is lazily opening and closing to facilitate scratching.

“Jesse?”  Hanzo speaks, concern laced through his voices.

The cowboy grunts, about as much of a reply as he can muster. He feels drained and pulled thin, a rubber band stretched too far. He feels the dragons get bigger, their warmth spreading over his body. One stops at roughly the size of a dog, but the other continues to grow until he can hook his claws in Jesse and flip them.

On his back, Hanzo lets Jesse rest on his underbelly, while at the same time resting on the sharpshooter. If he was in better spirits, he’d make a joke about cowboy sandwiches, but as it stands he melts into the warmth.

The smaller of the two gently kneads at him, writhes until he can rest his head on Jesse’s and lets out a soft chirp.

“You’re the goddamn best,” Jesse manages after a while of being warmed and held by Hanzo.

“I know.” - “Thank you.” The cheeky serpents reply.

He reaches for a large claw with a chuckle, taking what would anatomically equal Hanzo’s hand in his. The palm of his claws are deceptively soft, with plump padding like a cat’s paw. Jesse presses at one of the pads with a thumb, a stress relief ball and a lover’s hand all in one.

Hanzo grumbles beneath him but doesn’t pull away, lets him have something to fidget with.

“Y’know…” Jesse starts off with trepidation, “I know you’re both you, honey, but there’s gotta be a way to differentiate you? Cause if I ask you to move, I don’t mean my big boy,” The cowboy rubs his face against Hanzo’s mane as the larger dips his head down. “I mean the you with your claws in my back.”

The small pinpricks at his sides disappear and the smaller serpent noses at the back of his neck in apology.

“New names?” - “What kind?” Hanzo sounds worried, and it occurs to the cowboy that different names might imply a separation.

Quickly, he pulls the claw in his hand to his face, careful as he plants a kiss on the center pad with a smile. “Not what you’re thinkin’, Hanzo. I’d never ask ya to be two different things. Just nicknames, just when you’re like this so I can yell at the right one of ya.”

Both dragons rumble, shift uneasily. “How will you know?”

“I’ll know. You show things differently. For example,” He lets go of the claw and shifts to sit on Hanzo’s chest, smiling at the yelp the dragon on his back gives as it tumbles. “You like bein’ bigger, and you,” He meets the smaller dragon’s face with a nose rub as it crawls up him to drape across the cowboy’s shoulders. “You’re always willin’ to be the smaller one if you want different sizes.”

For long moments Hanzo is silent, thinking and watching but never still. He pulls Jesse higher on his chest and the smaller dragon drags the long coils of his body onto Jesse’s shoulders.

“I am willing to try.” The larger one speaks first, followed by the dragon on his shoulders. “What would you call me?”

Jesse scratches his chin, “Hadn’t thought that far. You got any suggestions?” Both keep quiet, a no without saying as much. “Well, why not just your name in pieces. Han and Zo?”

Hanzo gnashes his teeth at that, the smaller jaw snapping by his ear in displeasure. That would be a negatory on that duo of names, but if he’s honest, Jesse hasn’t the foggiest idea what he can call his lover. “I don’t have much, sweetheart.”

“Yes.”

Jesse glances up, finds himself being stared at intently. “‘Yes’ what, sugarcube?”

“Also yes.”

His brows knit together, a few seconds passing by before he understands what Hanzo wants. “Sweetheart and Sugarcube?” The names garner him intense purrs of satisfaction. Jesse chuckles, cheeks flushed pink in delight as he presses his cheek to the smaller dragon. “Never thought you enjoyed those sorts o’ names.”

“Only from you.” - “Only for you.”

The smaller dragon changes sizes again, to match his larger self. Large and twisting, they coil and surround Jesse with his body. Up, down, there’s no place they do not swarm him, rubbing and purring and _happy_. “The word game we played at the cabin.” Hanzo says when his faces find Jesse in the mass of coils, pressing his large noses into him.

The gunslinger smiles, sifts his hands through golden manes. “What about it?”

Apprehensive, even for such large dragons, the voices are small. “Hanzo.”

Jesse tucks his hands under both snouts, drags them up to his face. “Sweetheart,” He kisses one. “Sugarcube.” And the other, grinning broadly with the flourish of affection. “Jesse.”

The reply is instant, the mass of dragon bodies writhing to surround more of Jesse, if possible. “Mate.” - “Mate.”

-

Jesse’s never thought of himself as a longing kind of person; the kind who sigh wistfully and look into the sky daydreaming about someone. The kind of person who tears up at the thought of saying goodbye, or who steals items of clothing just for the comfort when someone’s gone.

But he was, apparently.

Hanzo was sent off on a small covert escort job, gone for a week, and he’d been forced to physically pry Jesse off of him so that he wouldn’t be late for the transport. With a promise to return in one piece, the archer was gone and Jesse found himself burrowing beneath Hanzo’s quilt as he waits for the days to go by. He hadn’t realized just how much Hanzo was apart of his current lifestyle.

Hana tries to coax him into the shooting range, and Jesse follows but his off mood and poor scores don’t keep him there for long. He finds himself unable to focus on the training targets ahead of him; thoughts always wandering back to the dragon. For every shot he fires, he misses two.

Genji even comes by with a brilliant idea to make Reaper - Reyes’ life hell for a while. A long complicated scheme that would probably put Rube Goldberg to shame and burn some time. It’s tempting, but he declines.

What a sap he must be, so distracted that he finds his normal activity paltry in comparison to lying in wait. On days past when he goes to the range with Hana, he knows Hanzo would eventually come join them.. And when he assists Genji and gets up to no good, he scampers back to their room, red in the face and explains in great detail what their scheme is to the dragon that will always listen.

But he’s still away.

He’s not woefully dependent, doesn’t fall apart at the seams when Hanzo’s not around, but something’s been fluttering in his chest, winding tight around his heart and lungs and squeezing. It releases him when he’s with the archer, but when they’re apart it creeps up on him. With no contact for a week, no way of knowing how Hanzo was doing, the feeling has him in a painful vice.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Zenyatta who pulls him back out of his den.

Gentle rapping at his door has him grunting in reply, unwilling to get up and answer it if he’s just going to close it and crawl back into the bed.

“Jesse, are you feeling well enough to join me today?” The omnic’s voice is even, not too grating or loud.

“No.”

“It does not have to be meditation, but stewing is bad for one’s health.”

He huffs- has to admit, it’s day... Three? Yeah, three. And he’s feeling pretty gross in his own skin, despite having showered the night before. “Then what?”

“I have a garden, perhaps you could help me decide what I should plant next.”

That catches his attention. Fresh greens and new life to help distract him from the ache in his chest. And he’ll be able to tell Hanzo that he managed to do something while the archer was gone, a nice tale to recount outside of the par for the course ‘didn’t do nothin’ much, just trained mostly’ bluff he’ll give.

He drags himself out of bed, pulling on clothes, and tries to put his hair into some form of orderly fashion before he opens the door.

Zenyatta is there waiting patiently, greets him with a head tilt and Jesse can feel the smile behind it. “This way.”

The omnic stands as always, walks side by side with him, meeting him in equal. He never feels like Zenyatta is pitying him, never feels out of control in the monk’s presence. Part of him wonders if that’s standard training for the shambali or if it’s Zenyatta’s modified way of life. “It is not far, you could have stayed in your sleepwear.”

“That mighta been rude of me.” His boxers were not the most secure garments on base and while he was sure the omnic would never mention a mishap, the cowboy didn’t want to risk the embarrassment that might send him crawling back into his hiding.

But not far is an understatement.

A floor down and across the hall is more accurate.

The bosses quarters. The gunslinger slows, it’s Reaper’s door, where the ex-commander of Blackwatch would stay when on this base. Part of him fears he’s being forced to face the man he’s yet to have a proper conversation with.

A hand, hard and metallic, yet comforting all the same, alights on his arm.

“You said garden.”

Zenyatta hums in affirmation. “Gabriel has been kind enough to allow me use of his balcony. More sunlight and more space than my own room. Come,” He keys open the door deftly, with the ease of having done it a hundred times before. “He won’t mind.”

Like toeing into a lion’s den, he follows meekly behind the omnic. For the most part, everything in the quarters is neat and orderly, what he always expected of Reyes, with the exception of sweaters, hoodies, and jackets strewn over the loveseat. He expects the color black, but nearly everything is a dark grey color, metallic, or green.

Plants hang in pots suspended by rope cords, small shoots of bamboo decorate surfaces in glass cups filled with rocks, and a small table sits adorned with a potted bloom of flowers- pink petals with a bright yellow inside. Some small part of Jesse suspects that Zenyatta’s garden was no longer contained to the balcony.

The monk leads him to the patio door, presses the release for it and allows Jesse the first step out.

Or rather, the first step in.

The balcony is essentially enclosed, a large canopy built with wood lattices and covered with creeping ivy vines that create a veil between them and the outside world. Sun streams through purposefully made gaps in the plant, illuminating the rest of the enclosure. Tiered, like bleachers, along the railing is a bed of soil, bursting with vibrant green and colorful flourish under Zenyatta’s care.

At first glance, they appear to all be in one flowerbed, but the further side is empty of blooms and shows how the setup is divided neatly into boxes. Jesse takes notice that it’s about the same width as every time the foliage abruptly changes into something else.

“I was built to garden- that was the knowledge I was given at my creation.” Zenyatta adjusts a sagging chrysanthemum from one of the boxes, hands gentle with practiced care. “To help bring life where others of my kind had brought destruction. I gave it up quickly, chased out by people who were too wounded from the crisis to trust that I wasn’t poisoning them or their environment. The group that would become the Shambali welcomed me with open arms.”

It’s not hard to imagine the reception of an omnic growing food and selling it, years ago even Jesse would have rather paid a higher price to a human merchant than to buy from an omnic.

“I still keep the hobby. It is quite therapeutic, and I’ve offered many a plot to share here.” The omnic says, tenderly holding a whip of ivy. “Gabriel, Genji, Hana,”

“Hana?”

Zenyatta nods. “She enjoys succulents- if they do not bloom into flowers and more grow from the pieces they leave behind. She will never have to watch them wither.”

Immediately he spies her portion, short aloe vera and a variety of others in a variety of hues.

“Up until recently she had some daisies and pink roses but decided to remove them.” The omnic gives him a knowing turn of his head, a sly look.

Jesse wants to know who each of the plots belong to, but he’s not versed in the language of flowers or the psychology behind the growing of certain plants. There are more spots than names listed, he wonders who else visits the garden.

As if sensing his curiosity, Zenyatta picks out a few less revealing facts about the flowers surrounding them. “Mei grows violets because they do not fall as easily to the cold. Lena grows nothing but red roses and every time she returns home, she takes one with her. ‘ _Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are._ ’’”

“Does Hanzo have something here?”

The question doesn’t surprise the monk, who laughs softly and beckons him over to a plot. “He is surprisingly superstitious with the language of flowers, or rather superstition is why he grows them.” He hums. “Plumeria, zephyranthes, sweatpea, moonflower, and mauve carnations- he tells a story of new beginnings, atonement, and dreaming. But perhaps the most interesting are these-”

Zenyatta points to a large cluster of red blooms in the center of the plot, surrounded by smatterings of the other aforementioned flowers. If Jesse didn’t know any better, he would have thought them roses, but then he knew the omnic would have said as much and they would be far from the most interesting thing in the bed.

“Red camellia- a flower of love.”

The cowboy leans over, peers at the flower more intimately, still searching for the interesting.

“But it is known to be bad luck for a samurai.”

“He ain’t a samurai.” Jesse defends.

“Isn’t he?” The omnic titters a synthetic laugh. “I suppose it depends on what he thinks of himself. Is he growing for affection, or to bring misfortune upon himself as punishment for his past deeds?”

The cowboy is silent, and dares to take a petal of one of the camellias between his fingers, a texture like silk sliding beneath his thumb. He looks to the other spaces, lots of bright reds and pinks, soft purples and whites, all boasting shades of green- but there’s hardly any yellows or oranges. “Zenyatta,”

The monk hums, his tone airy as though he knows what Jesse means to ask- he always seems to know.

“Could I grow something here?” Bring life to the garden.

Zenyatta alights a hand on his shoulder. “Of course, Jesse. We can go out and buy whatever you wish tomorrow.”

He thinks of sunflowers, something that reaches for the light in the daytime, marigolds in all their sunset hues, and honeysuckles that his mother used to grow. Bright, vibrant, full of warmth and happiness in his memories. “Thank you.”

-

It’s an easy day around the watchpoint, a heavy mist soaks into the very bones of everything and everyone, casting a gloomy haze and nudges even the sternest of agents inside. There is, of course, the ever present acknowledgement that should an emergency be declared, they would be forced to answer regardless of the weather- however, nothing stops them from groaning about it.

Jesse is lazily tangled up with Hanzo in their nest, stroking his hair, having his prosthetic hand played with in turn. His chest feels light and airy, he can take full, deep breaths of air, let it chill his body. Occasionally they adjust, trade both soft and greedy kisses, before settling.

Something hangs in the air, passive but persistent.

He ignores it in favor of listening to Hanzo, who’s weaving stories of his past and some of his present.

“-when Genji fell, his head was so big that he got stuck in the tree.” The archer laughs, deep and rich. It shakes Jesse, makes him want to pause and rewind time just to replay it again and again. “Imagine, a meter long dragon, writhing and dangling by it’s head. We were lucky we did not have visitors that day.”

Jesse grins, tucks into Hanzo and rubs his cheek against him, bathing in the purred rumble he draws. “I got stuck in a tree once,”

Hanzo’s eyes turn mischievous, always willing to greedily gulp down his tales. “Do tell.” Anything else he’d take in turn, on a need to know. But Jesse’s learned that when it comes to him, the dragon drinks like a parched man does water.

“Was out huntin’, forgot where I put my snare for the rabbits and when I went out to look, I found it. Got myself strung up in a tree and goddamn,” He whistles. “Widowmaker didn’t let me forget it for weeks. Bless her heart, she didn’t tell a soul either. Sometimes, I used to catch her doodling it on her documents, stick-figure of me, hangin’ by my ankle.”

The archer rolls onto him, stares down from his perch. “Do you still plan on going back for her?”

“Yes.” He answers instantly. “I have to. That ain’t just Widowmaker in there anymore and she can’t keep acting forever. They’ll ask her to take out a kid of a diplomat, and she won’t be able to. She always looked at me with… disgust when I had to do it.”

“They go after children?”

Jesse grimaces, their light conversation turned grim in the blink of an eye. “Honey, they go after anyone and they don’t-” His throat seizes, remembering his own suffering at their hands. And he was wanted by them, he can’t imagine what unwanted victims went through. “They don’t make it easy on anyone.”

Hanzo scowls, glances down and tries to steer the conversation away. “And I thought only my treatment was so special.”

“Hanzo,” The cowboy grabs, tucks the dragon against him. “Every time they brought you back to that pen and you were still fightin’, I was relieved. I didn’t know you, but I knew them and- fuck, I wouldn’t wish that shit on my enemies.”

Their conversation quickly falls to silence, but they lay with each other like that for a long time.

Jesse listens to the thundering of his own heart, listens to Hanzo’s even breathing as he falls asleep on top of his chest, and tries to match his own breath with it. The dragon always breathes too quick for him, for every breath he takes, the dragon’s taken two and that seems normal for him. The archer drools on him in his slumber, his hands grab fistfuls of Jesse’s clothing and wrench tightly. He doesn’t sleep beautifully, a notion that always warms the cowboy’s heart, because as far as he’s aware, he’s the only one who ever gets to see this part of Hanzo.

The mist outside grows heavier, darkening the room and the clouds that overcast swell until they fall. Rain, light for a few moments, suddenly thunders against the roof of the watchpoint.

The feeling in the room doesn’t go away, but Jesse’s thankful that it doesn’t get worse.

What does get worse, is the rain, the storm. It breaks suddenly, lashing out across the sky with a flash and a thunderous roar. The instant it happens, Hanzo wakes, tenses for a long moment and then exhales slowly- his breath cools the wet patch on Jesse’s chest, prickling at his skin, but something tells him not to move.

Another flash, another tense moment for the archer. A snake, coiled and ready to strike. Or the more likely situation, a dragon, restless and ready to break free.

The thought doesn’t sound to wild in his own head, so he speaks. “Do you want to go outside?”

The dragon’s head whips around, sharp blue eyes stare at him for so long that Jesse nearly fears he’s made a mistake. Hanzo nods, slow and measured while he mouths words that aren’t voiced, silently talking to himself.

“Alright darlin’, let’s get you outside.”

“You too.” Hanzo says suddenly, getting up and tossing Jesse’s clothes at him. “Get dressed, you are coming with me.”

He hesitates, rubs the hem of his shirt between his fingers. “I dunno about you, but I’m likely to catch a cold if I go out in the rain.”

Gently, Hanzo takes the shirt from him, pulls it over his arms first and then his head. There’s care in the action, a certain ease of wanting to comfort while moving forward. “Please.”

Jesse nods; how could he resist? Hanzo hardly ever asks for anything. Simple and urgent it must mean something when he does.

Together, they dress. It matters not whose hands pull on who’s clothes or who initiates each stolen kiss and gentle squeeze before skin disappears. They move, like a dance, not without the occasional knock of elbows followed by a laugh, and before long Jesse is bundled up and Hanzo wears nothing but a long sleeve shirt and sweatpants.

The cowboy wants to protest, insist that Hanzo dress warmer, but the dragon shakes his head at the offered jacket.

Hanzo leads him through Hangar 18, popping out on the other side near the comm towers. They’re soaked when the archer finally stops, staring up at the sky as it flashes- he’s eager, his scales flashing bright blue in synch with the lightning that cracks.

Suddenly, he begins peeling off his shirt, tossing it onto a container and staring at it intently when it begins to slip, threatening to fall into the muddied ground below. As though sentient, it stays and moves no further.

“Hanzo! What-”

“I would like to have clothes for the walk back.” He answers, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and shedding them quickly. Jesse forgets- Hanzo is a dragon of the storm.

Raptly, the cowboy watches the flickering blue scales cover the man’s whole body, burning with a bright, sudden flare before he splits into two dragons. He rolls in the mud, swarming over himself and raising his snapping jaws to the rain as he grows, and grows, and grows. His heads are the size of Jesse’s body, larger than the sharpshooter’s ever seen him, and his claws leave deep furrows in the dirt.

He writhes in the storm, edges closer to the cliff. Lightning strikes him and Jesse cries out, raising his arms as if it’d protect him from the static that licks the air. He worries the dragons have been injured, until he realizes the deep rumble he’s hearing is not the thunder, but rather the satisfaction of Hanzo purring.

The electricity arcs between his coils, much like it did that time in the store room, with Talon guns hunting them down. The large arcs leave behind smaller sparks of electricity that dance across his skin. The mane that lines his body and limbs, twists with thin smoke but doesn’t burn. Jesse marvels in the way the dragons lick the smaller shocks from their bodies, rumbling more when lightning strikes again.

He’s afraid to touch them, to feel the buzz he knows is flowing around them, because there’s no controlling the way the bolts dance and one wrong move could get him electrocuted. So he waits, watches, awed by the man he shares his bed with.

There’s no telling how long Hanzo dances in and consumes the lightning, but once the storm has  moved too far away, too long between each ring of thunder, he turns his gaze onto Jesse.

Something hungry lurks in those eyes, that gaze, the way the dragons shrink to match his size and lower to the ground, prowling towards him swiftly. He shows no signs of stopping, and the soaked ground snares Jesse’s boot when he tries to back up, landing his ass in the mud.

“Darlin’, what-”

Each dragon swarms up a side, not pressing him to the ground, but pressing him between Hanzo’s bodies. Gently they rub their faces against his neck, under his jaw, anywhere they can get contact.

Jesse rubs back at one, “Sugar,” and the other “Sweetie.” He knows he got it right when the dragons rumble and chitter at him. “That was somethin’.”

“I am sorry there was not much for you,” - “That you stood in the rain for nothing.”

He chuckles, soaked to the bone, and pulls both serpents closer to him. “That wasn’t nothin’. That was… I coulda watched you for hours. Stunnin’, Beautiful, that’s what you are.”

-

He’s loathe to leave the warmth of the shower, but he knows the hot water can’t last forever and Hanzo is waiting for him.

Out of the rain, clean of mud and that certain feeling of grime that rain leaves when it dries, he rubs the towel on his hair as he exits the bathroom. He can’t see much as he dries his locks, but he can hear- Hanzo is opening drawers on the dresser and shutting them swiftly.

The archer approaches him, his scaled toes stepping onto Jesse’s own. Spatial intimacy, not quite crushing, but always touching. He takes over drying the gunslinger’s hair, doing a far more efficient job and stealing a kiss when he slides the towel back. He demands another when he loops the towel around Jesse’s neck and pulls him down to meet.

Jesse backs him toward their bed, laughing boldly when Hanzo stumbles and falls back onto it. Once the dragon situates himself better, Jesse folds himself neatly against his side. Their legs tangle and slowly they drag blankets over themselves to make for warmth.

They can’t be bothered to put on clothing, despite the the few feet it would take to reach the drawer that holds Nolli’s sweaters. The blankets are nearer, and one by one Jesse layers them over both of their bodies.

Hanzo tucks closer to him, steals his warmth and brushes out Jesse’s unruly hair with his dexterous fingers.

Of all the things they’ve done, places they’ve been, there’s nothing better than where he’s at right now. Entwined with Hanzo, sharing space and time and feeling light- feeling _happy_.

Peacefulness lays thick over them, heavier than the blankets that become a mountain, and it’s so strong that even the buzz from Hanzo’s phone doesn’t break it.

The archer wiggles against him, reaches for his personal phone on their bedside table and quickly squirrels it back into their den of covers, to soak up the warmth he lost. It’s a message from Genji, a quick ‘ _Happy Storm, brother_ ’ as if the rain were a holiday. All things considered, the way Hanzo revelled in the lightning, it might as well have been a celebration.

Hanzo responds: _happy storm_ , and shuts the application.

The gunslinger catches a glimpse of his background before he shuts off the phone completely, a photo of himself with small white daisies in his beard and a crown of light pink roses. Illuminated by the sun coming through the window, his hair appears with streaks of red woven in the dark browns.

“Where’d you get that?” He finds himself asking, prying. He hadn’t known a picture of that existed - were there more floating around?

Hanzo hums, shuts off his phone and tosses it somewhere on the bed. He scratches at Jesse’s beard, digs his fingers into the bristles before smoothing them out. “Hana sent it to me. You look very handsome in it, full of life.”

“Did she send it to others?”

“Not that I know of.” The archer pauses in his ministrations, stares for a long moment at Jesse’s face and smiles. “If it bothers you, I will change it.”

Jesse shakes his head. “Naw, I just- I don’t want anyone else seein’ me like that. But… I’m glad you like it.”

“The only gift better would be to see it in person- speaking of, I have something for you.” The dragon gestures to the bedside table. “In the drawer. The thin case.”

Better angled to reach without leaving the comfort of their warm shelter, Jesse retrieves the case. It was a thin hardlight disc, unmarked. He raises an eyebrow at Hanzo, tapping the corner of the case against the dragon’s chin.

Frowning, Hanzo snatches the case from him and presses it firmly to Jesse’s chest. “A gift, for you. I paid for Lúcio to create music for you- for when I am gone.”

“When you’re gone?”

“Away, on missions. Do not think I am not told about how you skulk around. It is cute to think of, but heartbreaking, my dear.”

Dear. His dear. Jesse’s chest tightens suddenly, but not painfully, and he wraps his arms around the archer and pulls him impossibly closer. “No offense, but I don’t think a lil music’ll help when you’re gone.”

Hanzo tsks, taps the cowboy’s bearded chin with the case this time and smirks when Jesse’s face screws up from the assault. “Not just any music. A few others have the privilege of knowing what I am. Lúcio happens to be the newest. But- Sounds of me, made into music for you.” He pauses as he speaks. “Pretentious sounding, but I assumed… hearing you speak always provides me comfort. I hope my sounds do the same for you.”

Jesse carefully plucks the case from Hanzo’s hands, deposits it safely on the bedside table before grabbing Hanzo’s cheeks and pulling him in for a kiss. “How’d I get so lucky?” He muses between them before he goes for another. There’s nothing chaste in the way he kisses Hanzo, bites at his lip, licks into his mouth, hungry for all the dragon can give him. “How’d I wind up with someone as- as marvelous as you?”

Hanzo laughs into each kiss, gasps when he’s pawed at and bitten. “Surely your charms have swayed me, a hapless bystander, into your clutches.”

“Hmmm,” Jesse hums, pulling Hanzo with him, rolling them and straddling the archer. “I better earn my keep then, before you get wise to my wily ways.”

-

 **Message Received: 0250, 12132078** ****  
**Subject: Sample Analysis**  
  
_ >>  SAMPLE 01001010XI 01001101UH LINE 4-1 _  
_ >>  ANALYSIS: complete _  
_DATABASE MATCH: not found_  
_results based on 0.4mg sample._  
  
_ADAPTABILITY POTENTIAL: high_  
_RESISTANCE POTENTIAL: high_  
_REGENERATION RATE: unknown_ _  
_ -more testing required for data report.

_-current data report sent to GP004F. File registration 0003459._

 

 _ >>  RECOMMENDATION: proceed with integration & standard testing procedure. _  
_ >>  COURSE OF ACTION: retrieve subject. proceed with caution. _  
_subject bio-weapon capable of critical damage._  
_ >>  L01 agents unable to recover subject. _ _  
_ >>  UNIT-FB04 being sent to observe…

_ > _

 

 **Terminate Message:** > **YES** | NO

-

The perfect scene stretches out before him- Jesse, spread provocatively across their bed, flowers placed in his hair. It had been a whimsical thought, brief and passing, that he should have the treat of seeing his beloved adorned in flowers, bathed in sunlight. Jesse looks born to be right where he is, and Hanzo devours every second of it.

How delighted he’d been when Jesse brought up the notion, offered him the chance. He’d only ever dreamed of the man amongst the double edged flowers, but with a simple ‘please’ his dreams were made real against the backdrop of his serape.

Red camellias are tucked into his locks, and petals of bright pink sweetpea pepper the coarse hairs of his beard. Even his prosthesis’ are adoringly decorated for the scene, the stems of moonflowers carefully woven into the gaps of his forearm so that the flowers appear to bloom from the metal, and a single one placed carefully with his knee. Love, gratitude, and dreams. Everything he feels for the sharpshooter.

His love, his gem, his sun- a radiant light in his life, splays himself in tasteful fashion and urges Hanzo to take his own pictures- for a private collection of course.

Each curve of Jesse’s body is lovingly caught in photos; the swell of his sides, the pooch of his stomach, and the subtle curve of a blissful smile on his face. Daring to break whatever spell holds Jesse in such a state, Hanzo reaches out and glides his thumb over that smile, helpless to resist feeling.

The cowboy’s lips part with a sigh, eyes fluttering closed and red blossoming across his cheeks. His flush accents the flowers and Hanzo is sure to snap a picture before the moment passes.

Despite Jesse’s aroused state, the sensual scene is not caused by the swell of his dick, but by the way he lays himself bare for Hanzo. Lets him do as he pleases.

More pictures, the cowboy shifts and squirms against the serape. He reaches up, twists his hand in the fabric, forcing himself not to take himself in hand, make this last for as long as Hanzo wants; as long as he can take it.

Hanzo snaps close ups of every detail- the score of mating marks at his hips and inner thighs, the scratches that trail from his back and over his ribs, the way his cock twitches when he gets closer; when he makes Jesse wait a little longer. He makes sure to document Jesse’s cybernetics with their soft blue glow beneath the flowers.

In the future, when Jesse doubts himself, when he thinks himself ugly, too large or broken, Hanzo will show him these. He’ll recount how gorgeous the gunslinger is, spread out like a feast, pliant and willing.

Jesse’s prosthetic hand grabs at his chest and begins a trail down. Each inch is taken in a snapshot, but when he strays too close to his dick, Hanzo stops him, holds his wrist and pulls his hand away. “Ah- no touching. You will ruin the picture.”

A picture, indeed. Flushed and heavy from long moments spent under Hanzo’s gaze, Jesse whines sweetly at the denial of touch. It wasn’t of great help that Hanzo made sure to relish in as much of Jesse as he could while he placed the flowers.

Bitemarks are noted, down his neck and over his chest. They overlap with the marks on his thighs and when Hanzo grabs his leg and presses the pad of his thumb against one, the cowboy lets out a gasp that bleeds into a moan. “Sensitive?”

“Darlin’, please. Honey, Sugar, Sweetness,” Jesse babbles as Hanzo gives in and strokes his skin- everywhere but where he wants it.

He pinches at peaked nipples, drawing out more sounds, humming from his needs and desires. Undone by Hanzo’s hand, the sharpshooter writhes and pants.

Suddenly remembering himself and his mission, Hanzo pulls away from Jesse, just out of reach and watches as he tries to gather himself. The cowboy twists and turns, mouth opening and closing without so much as a sound and the archer can’t help but tease his mate in such a state. “What is it, Jesse, my dear,” He delights in the choked breath he hears. “What do you want to say?”

Strained, but clear. “I love you.”

Hanzo stills, staring at the man, wide-eyed and shocked. He always thought he’d be the first to say them, or at the very least prepared to repeat them back, but he can’t. He twitches, his hearts swell and choke him into silence..

Without his full attention, Jesse takes his chance. His flesh hand slithers down his body, grabs his cock and he lets out a loud, pleased groan as he finally receives the touch he wants. Golden-brown eyes never leave Hanzo’s, never let him look away and see the scene for all he is as he strokes himself.

“I love you,” He repeats on a moan. Like a prayer, “Hanzo.”

The dragon wets his lips, listens to the tempo of Jesse’s body, desiring to devour every part of the gunslingers being. He should be taking pictures, should capture this moment so that when he’s alone, away on long missions- he can look back and imagine the needy, greedy cowboy writhing under him. But he can’t bring himself to think that far ahead, stunned by the gunslinger’s mantra and so focused on holding himself together- the phone hangs loosely in his grip.

Jesse rolls his hips, begins thrusting into his fist, gasping Hanzo’s name over and over with smatterings of “I love you,” and with a final cry, he tips over the edge and paints himself with his spend. Even in the aftermath of his orgasm, he softly calls Hanzo’s name, reaching for him.

 _That_ is something Hanzo remembers to take a picture of.

He grabs a towel, wipes Jesse off and pulls the flowers from his cybernetics so that they don’t get crushed into them and cause problems. Hanzo lays on the bed, pulls Jesse to him and peppers his flushed face with kisses. He knows he’s hard from the display, but he can’t bring himself to care about his own satisfaction with his mate so sated in his arms, eyes drooping and lazily pressing his face to Hanzo’s neck. “Jesse- Jesse,” He coos, voice wavering as he pulling his quilt over them. “I love you- I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual love for Aki, a great friend and speedy editor. I'm so fucking blessed to have you in my life, babe. <3
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> "Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are." - Alfred Austin


	12. Death Sentence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild body horror in this chapter!  
> also a little emetophobia warning, nothing graphic, but it is mentioned that the event happens.

“Hanzo- darlin’!”

Jesse forgoes a shirt and chases after the man as he strides out of their room. He scrambles around the doorway, knocking an elbow into the jamb with a hiss but doesn’t give up his pursuit.

The archer staunchly ignores him, presses forward and puts distance between them with a huff. He pauses when he reaches the door to the building, his hand on the release. Hanzo’s shoulder’s slump, and the dragon tucks in on himself.

“Hanzo, I didn’t-”

“I cannot believe you would call me that.” The archer says, voice devoid of inflection. He’s steeling himself, defensive as he peeks at the cowboy over his shoulder. Something flickers in his eye and he’s quick to turn away again.

Catching up, Jesse hovers around him, reaching, but hesitant to lay a hand on Hanzo. “I won’t say it again.” He wants to placate the dragon, soothe him and whatever has him in such a foul mood.

Hanzo inhales deeply, tilts his head to stare at the top of the door that he refuses to open- perhaps waiting until they’ve finished speaking. “You,” He starts slowly, clicks his tongue. “Jesse McCree, you are an impossible man.”

“I didn’t know there was something wrong with it- Darlin’, I’m sorry. I’ll avoid it from now on.. I can’t- I don’t wanna hurt you, Hanzo.”

“It is not what’s wrong with it, but what is wrong with you.” The archer tenses, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth. Jesse sees little aborted sobs shake his shoulders and wonders just exactly what fucked him up so badly. “I cannot look at you. Not-” He breaks off, voice wavering to a stop.

There’s a moment, where he hears a stark, sudden snort. As the dragon acquiesces and turns to him, it all but baffles Jesse when he sees Hanzo’s lips curled at their corners and an electric mirth in his eyes.

“Not when you call me that so seriously. It is…” He smiles more. “Cute.”

Hanzo breaks into a laugh. The jig is up- he’s not crying, not upset, chuckling low while he cups the confused cowboy’s scruffy chin.

“Darlin’.” Jesse whines, crowds the archer back against the door. A joke. Hanzo’s own special brand of a dramatic, terrible joke and by the cheshire's grin the dragon gives Jesse, he knows it too. “You’re gonna be the death of me one of these days.”

He makes up for his teasing by drawing the sharpshooter closer and grinning into the small space between them. “Impossible, ridiculous- of all the names you have given me, perhaps that one is the worst.” He kisses at Jesse’s cheek, trails small pecks to his ear. “Say it again.”

Winded from the demand, his voice is quiet and cracks slightly. “Haney.”

“Awful.” Hanzo snaps. “ _Again._ ”

“Hanzo,” Jesse wraps his arms around the dragon’s waist. “Honey,” He presses up against the archer, crushing him. “Haney.”

They hold each other; Jesse smoothes his hand up his partner’s sides and tucks his forehead close, and after a moment Hanzo kisses him softly, with a smile lingering on his lips.

“Goddamn, Hanzo. So cruel to me.” The cowboy complains.

“I did not mean to frighten you.” Hanzo scratches at his beard, rights wayward hairs.

Jesse preens in the attention. “I thought I’d fucked up- thought I hurt ya.”

“I will admit I was shocked by it at first. But as I said: it is cute.” He pauses, frowns and drags Jesse’s attention to him. “You will not call me that in public.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, _Haney_.”

The archer groans and pushes at Jesse, hands lingering on his chest a moment before removing him. “Go- go get dressed, I do not want to miss breakfast. Reinhardt is cooking and I enjoy his meals.”

The gunslinger huffs but lightly jogs back into their room and slips on a shirt. He smoothes the fabric over his torso and adjusting the sleeves just so before he slips on his serape, preening until he deems his reflection striking enough. Hanzo is still waiting at the door for him, offering his arm when Jesse gets close and the cowboy eagerly takes it.

Jesse lights up a cigar, Hanzo occasionally reaches over to pluck it from him and take a small puff before placing it back. Each theft is met with the steal of a kiss on Hanzo’s cheek and Jesse has reason to think the dragon’s doing it on purpose. He slips their hands together, bumping close and hums to the soft wind whistling through the base’s crevices. It’s warmer out today, but that might just be him.

A communicator sits absently at his hip, an official comm. He may be the new greenhorn agent again, but at least they’ve finally given him a place beyond a prize from a mission. He has his own access code to the shooting range back, and his comm may be monitored, but he’s put on availability for missions.

It still disorients him, to not wake within a sparse quarters at Talon, to get out of bed not because he’s forced to, but because there’s no mask to don, no mountain to climb when he has does. He wakes up beside a man - beside the dragons - who greets him each morning with affection. A man who walks in his dreams and stops his nightmares.

A year ago he would have laughed at the thought that anything good could happen to Jesse McCree.

Good found him, taking the form of a partner who can weave between reality but allows Jesse deal with his demons on his own terms. He’ll never understand exactly but Hanzo never lets him forget that he’ll be there for him when he needs it. Good takes the form of dragons who walks the earth beside him, rely on him to keep secrets that have never seen the light of day before. Good is a man named Hanzo, who in no uncertain terms, loves him.

They reach the mess hall just in time, pulling apart to file in and fill up their plates. Their seats are tucked away in a corner hugging the window. Jesse knows he and Hanzo aren’t the most beloved of people at the watchpoint- an outlaw who turned on them and a mercenary whose current reputation lies built upon his past.

Jesse could tell them everything, what Talon did, everything they threatened him with, how hard he tried to cut them from the hit list, but he doesn’t want their pity. He’s a man too tired to plead his case to a court that won’t believe him.

Hanzo doesn’t talk about Genji’s death, but they all know to some degree it was him who struck his brother down. He’s too prideful, and if there’s one thing Jesse’s learned about his lover in the months spent together, it’s that he’s careful never to give anyone ammunition.

So they keep their distance, make nice, but don’t bother to try and charm away the suspicious glances. A certain monk would say they’ll all forgive in time if things keep up, but neither hold much of a candle to it. There are already those who make the effort to be with them, and those trusted few time and time again remind them that they are wanted.

Hana includes them in game night, endlessly entertained with Jesse’s mediocre skill and challenged by Hanzo’s surprising well of it. “I grew up with Genji- I am not one to turn down a challenge.” He claims, but Jesse can see in his smile that he enjoys playing. “It kept him happy.”

Genji floats in and out of their sphere, trading time with Hanzo and stealing it with Jesse. It’s easy to forget what the others don’t see. Hell, he doesn’t even completely see it. He doesn’t know what they had, only what the brothers have now. The understanding and acceptance between them is less a hyperlane and more of a rocky dirt road. Years of time apart haven’t been kind.

Jesse can’t miss the gutted tone of Genji’s body language when he sees the dragons swarm and dance- a form the younger shimada can no longer hold. He can’t miss the awkward ends where the brothers no longer relate. He can’t miss the look Hanzo has when he sees genji sitting with others but no plate of his own.

There are others; Lúcio greets them every morning they’re present, Angela teases the cowboy about check-ups, hands him medical journals he might find interesting- perhaps the greatest one yet is the one on chimerism, which Hanzo curls up beside him to read as well. Zenyatta offers his wisdom, occasionally informs them of when he’s next going to the nursery should they like to accompany him for more flowers, and drags Genji away when the cyborg lives up to the standards of a little brother.

“Ah, I forgot a drink.” Hanzo says, making to stand.

Jesse stops him with a hand on his shoulder, pulling the archer back into his seat as he’s still standing. “I got it. What’re ya havin’?”

The dragon scrunches his face, thinking.“Juice- citrus, something that pairs well with the bratwurst.”

“Got it. Be back in a shake.” Jesse whistles while he meanders his way to the kitchen, throws a finger gun to Reinhardt as he cooks up a second round of food - there will be enough for a day or two by this point - and receives a hearty ‘hello!’ and a wave with a spatula back. The cowboy smiles, progress.

Reinhardt trusts him well enough, enough for Jesse to slink behind him to get at the fridges. He pulls open the door and grunts when he can’t find the carton of orange juice that he knows is there, worries that someone may have finished it off before grocery day.

“It is good to see you more regularly, McCree.” Reinhardt speaks, his tone pleasant and warming. He’s welcoming, opening up for light conversation should the cowboy choose to take it.

Jesse pops open the second fridge and throws a grin over his shoulder to the knight. “Startin’ to feel a bit more regular.”

The giant replies, but whatever he says is lost as Jesse turns his attention to something in the fridge.

The Furby stares, gaze seeming to turn  straight to him, as if alive, intelligent, but the gunslinger knows that can’t be right- it’s only a toy.

He doesn’t know how it got here. The last time he saw it was nestled in the wrong fridge, in the wrong base, on the wrong side of a cage.

They know he’s here. Talon knows where he is.

The shock settles cold over his body, his metal hand wrenches at the door of the fridge, drawing a shriek from the metal yielding. A violent shiver snakes up his spine and sinks into his stomach in twists of nausea. It won’t take his eyes off him, boring into his soul as if to tell his fate, his future- or perhaps a lack thereof.

His chest tightens, can’t catch his breath as his vision swims with everything they will do to him- to everyone here. He shrinks back as the ghost of the Sandman lurches from the fridge bearing Boss’ smile. It will make sure all his nightmares seem like dreams with the brandish of a knife that will shred the dragons like ribbons. The hand that reaches for him, gnarled and leathery, is determined to take the ones he loves apart flesh from bone, pull at their wires, and rip happiness straight from his hands.

It sinks into his wrist and he shakes from the idea of it’s control- making the cowboy tear himself apart until whatever form they rebuild him in thanks them for it. He can’t- He won’t.

The sand dissolves and floods around his feet, weighing his legs down like sludge. Bile rises suddenly in his throat, and he heaves all over the floor, some small part of him  is thankful that he missed the contents of the fridge. He's not sure if it's the sand that’s fizzling away or the bile that’s eating at the floor, but a smokey haze clouds his vision.

He blinks once, twice, and then it’s just him staring at the tiles and his own mess.

The Furby watches on as he falls apart, mocks him with its unblinking gaze and an eye so haunting that Jesse can’t look up into it again or he might begin to think it can really see him. He knows that’s not so, it’s a tool, a camera of sorts, and somewhere in the world Boss will get a sick satisfaction at watching him fall apart. He’ll find pleasure in the way one of his top assets has turned into a wreck without him, and he’ll use that information to goad Jesse back into his hands.

Someone, suddenly, crowds too close, their voice too loud in his ear and their hands- oh their hands make him quake in fear. He lashes out, he’s pretty sure he shouts but it’s quiet compared to the wails of his future victims. His prosthetic hits something, someone, and Jesse lets out a violent sob that hurts his throat and his empty stomach threatens to upturn again.

He doesn’t weep, doesn’t cry, but his body tries to hold itself together and tear itself apart all at the same time.

There’s another voice, another body- feminine and wise and more hands- why do they keep putting their hands on him?

The hands don’t know. Jesse lurches forward out of their touch, grabs the furby and slams it to the ground. Small plastic pieces shatter from it’s body, the crunch and skitter are oddly satisfying to his ears. He sinks his boot down on it, hisses rough and low, desperate for it to stop staring, for it to stop mocking him..

He twists his heel- more snaps, more cracks until there is a sudden, deafening squelch. Jesse knows little about the toy, but he was always under the assumption that it was entirely mechanical.

Looking down is the worst decision he makes, sees the remnants of an eye spread across the floor, collapsed and oozing, with small wires jutting from the back. That one-eyed stare, from the cabin to here, was far more real than he imagined. He blinks and all sounds suddenly drown in silence. What’s left of the eye suddenly twitches, hazes red and lurches as if to keep it’s vision trained on him no matter the cost- the pupil’s nothing but a pinpoint and he swears he hears someone pull the trigger of a gun.

He shrieks, truly screams this time, makes some sort of unholy noise that sounds more like a beastial screech than a human in distress, and smashes the eye into nothing but a stain on the floor and kicks the body across the room.. It skitters under one of the tables and he moves to strike at it again, in equal measures of fury and fright.

Hands. More hands. They pull at him, grip at his shirt as voices beg him to stop, plea for him to tell them what’s wrong.

But his only focus is the toy. He can still feel it mocking him, despite it’s blindness, in spite of his destruction he can hear it make gleeful noises from the shadow of the table. In that moment, the notion of destroying it down to its smallest pieces is his whole world.

There’s no distinction between the people who pull at him - it could be Hana or it could be Reinhardt and he wouldn’t know the difference - but when _those_ hands touch him, he knows. The hands that chase away aches and nightmares, they make him freeze, pull him out of his frenzy. He blinks again, giving a full body shudder. All he sees is the ruined toy, and the terse silence sinks in as he withdraws on himself- lets those hands guide him away, off to somewhere safe.

Jesse is lifted, he tucks into the hold and inhales deeply. He smells comfort, something earthy and sharp that  he can’t put a name to but he can put the scent to a name- Hanzo. Words suddenly erupt in a flurry around him, concerns and questions that he can’t respond to, but he feels in the dragon’s chest every time Hanzo keeps the others at bay.

Shelter and sanctuary find him, whisper lowly to him as they walk. Nothing meaningful, nothing that strikes his mind into clarity, but they ease the painful tightening of his chest just enough for him to breathe.

They make it to a room - not theirs, the journey is far too short - and Hanzo settles him on a bed. Careful, precise hands dance down his arms with sure touches, run back up to his shoulders, his neck, and finally grab hold of his face. He sinks into them, rests the weight of his head in Hanzo’s grasp and closes his swimming eyes.

“Focus on me, Jesse.” The archer calls, thumbs smoothing under his eyes. They wipe away tears the gunslinger was unaware of being there beforehand.

He doesn’t look at Hanzo, but he focuses on what he can feel. Callouses from archery, so different from his own that are borne of handling a gun. An ever so subtle curl of his fingers, and had there been claws in contact with his skin, there’s no doubt that they would be holding onto Jesse so tightly. The dragon is near, close enough to surround Jesse but far enough that he doesn’t feel caged.

Hanzo’s breath comes out in harsh huffs, not pants of exhaustion, but gusts of irritation. There is nothing for him to fight, nothing for him to tear apart to protect Jesse from because the sharpshooter has already demolished what pushed him down this rabbit hole.

Jesse smiles, an exhausted, meek thing, and leans into the hands even more. He’ll have to ask Hanzo for another skull, despite the short amount of time he owned it, he misses the rabbit’s bone- textures both interesting and grounding.

“There you go,” Hanzo says low, encouraging him to keep on a path of healthier thoughts. “Can you talk to me, Jesse?”

He nods, opens his eyes and stares at the dragon through a haze. His heart twists, a feeling completely unlike the oppressive wrench on his lungs- he loves this man. Hanzo, so patient with him, understanding and willing to give him the world. “I love you,” He mumbles, his mouth behaving as though filled with cotton.

The dragon’s gaze is concerned and unwavering. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“The Furby. There was one at the hideout- that one.” He swallows, the good feelings running cold and fears quickly resurfacing. “Talon knows where I am. Where we all are. Hanzo we gotta- they’re gonna- I told you there ain’t no runnin’ from them. Ain’t nowhere safe from those sonsofb-” He chokes on his words, gasping in short breathes.

“Focus on me, Jesse.”

Hanzo makes a shushing noise, wipes away more tears. “We will all be fine.” He looks down to where Jesse’s hands wring angrily together, metal fingers scratching at his flesh palm, picking at raw patches of skin that he doesn’t remember having. “Will you be alright if I leave you for a moment? I will be just inside the washroom.”

Jesse nods, holds his breath as Hanzo’s hands slide off of his face. He leans forward to chase the touch for as long as it could linger.

Short seconds feel like long minutes before Hanzo returns, cupping the side of his face gently to let him know where the archer stands. The feeling brings back memories, of that same gentle hand holding him steady as the other threads flowers through his hair. Caressing, caring, the smell of dirt and soil still clinging to Hanzo’s skin from clipping the flowers.

Jesse desires to do that again, wants to have the archer do the same for him- both human and serpents. He can’t begin to imagine the beauty he would witness seeing his Sweetheart, his Sugarcube woven with sunflower petals.

His eyes fly open when a cloth runs over the back of his hand, cool and just on the side of too rough for him in this state, but he knows Hanzo means well and won’t say a thing against it. The sensitivity will pass, the worry the dragon would feel every time from then on would not.

As gentle as possible, Hanzo tends to his hands. He wipes them clean and passes over every scratch and scrape left behind from who knows what. He cleans between his fingers and rubs the cloth up to his elbow before starting with his prosthetic, taking care with every groove.

Hanzo takes hold of Jesse’s shirt collar, thumbs rubbing at the fabric. “Is it alright for me to take this off?”

Jesse looks down, notices the few splatters, likely bile, and nods hastily. He tries to help, tries to scramble out of the shirt and work on the bottom buttons while Hanzo begins from the top but the dragon stops him, holds his hands steady and pulls them away. “Lay down. I will take care of you.”

With deft hands, the shirt is taken care of and flung to the farthest corner of the room. Jesse just barely registers Hanzo’s hands on his face once again..

Jesse grabs, pulls at the dragon until the he gives into the manhandling and makes his seat on the cowboy’s lap. He tucks his head under Hanzo’s chin, noses at his jaw and wraps his arms around the archer.

Hanzo wiggles his arms out of the hold so he can wrap one over Jesse’s shoulders and thread his other hand into shaggy, tangled locks. He purrs, a rumble with purpose that puts Jesse at ease and makes him melt into the dragon’s embrace.

“We hafta tell the others.” They deserve a warning, the reason why Jesse just lost his damn mind in the middle of the kitchen.

Hanzo hums. “I will inform them later. Right now you do not need to worry about that thing. It is gone and Talon will have to go through me before they will ever step close to you.”

Despite his history with the criminal organization, Jesse believes him. He wants to believe him.  Maybe it’s in the way which Hanzo speaks so deeply, so finitely about it that has Jesse thinking the protection from the dragons will be enough, but as they coil around him in a gentle malaise- Jesse realizes that they’re all he has for placing his faith.

-

_A burning sensation starts at the small of his back and travels up his spine, making him arch and bow. It bleeds out over his shoulder, nothing in comparison to the inferno that comes from Deadeye, but uncomfortable all the same._

_His hand comes up to his shoulder, reaching as far as he can and trying to feel what’s going on, what he can’t see._

_Just as his fingers brush something soft and light, the room begin to shift._

_The world around him illuminates with a hum. Lines and dots smatter the walls like stars, emulating faces which watch Jesse wander about, lost in a strange room. There are no doors, no exits or windows, just him and the gleaming electronic visages._

_Jesse can’t remember how he got here, why he’s here, or where_ here _even is. It almost looks like a server room, old-fashioned but instead of the computers lined in rows, they’ve been stacked to form boundless walls._

_Something catches his attention from the far side of the chamber. The visages on the walls all shift to look towards the sound, flitting and shuddering as the servers shift. They creak and groan and a form bleeds out of them._

_A canine - a wolf if he had to guess, too bulky to be a coyote - falls to the ground in a heap, pressed tightly against the boundaries of their cage._

_Jesse cautiously approaches, but it’s only two steps before the beast shifts and rises. It pauses, shakes, and begins circling the room- circling him. Time passes too slow, stretching long and silent save for the soft clicks of the wolf’s nails on the floor._

_He goes to sit down and the beast snarls angrily at him but does not stop its pacing. Around and around, an infinite loop._

_“Easy there,” Jesse holds up his palms, as if the wolf could understand him. “Just gonna sit a spell.” And see if perhaps he’d managed to keep his cigars. He could use one right now._

_The wolf pauses, watches, and then it speaks. “You are calm for one who is haunted by death, gunslinger.”_

_Jesse laughs, the sound echoing from his chest. “Calm is a word that don’t apply to me much.” He’s all nerves, covered with a collected bluff that he’s sure ruined by now with how easily he breaks down nowadays._

_“The others hid.”_

_“Others?”_

_The wolf laughs this time, sharp and rattling. “You do not think you are the only one, do you?” It pauses its pacing, assesses him with a sideways glance. “Though perhaps you are.”_

_Jesse squints, and begins to notice just how bedraggled the wolf looks- head ducked low, bony limbs and the knobs of it’s spine just-showing through it’s thick pelt. “Who are you?” Part of him feels like he should be asking ‘what are you’, but the words don’t seem to want to come out._

_The beast remains silent, circles around growing closer and closer. It never turns, never faces another way and Jesse begins to think it only has one side, like a projector, or cut-out. It encroaches upon Jesse, ignoring any questions he may fling at it until it’s within arm’s reach._

_Against his better judgement, Jesse reaches out. The wolf’s fur is wiry and greasy, unkempt. His touch pauses the wolf’s steps, but still it watches him closely._

_“Brother?” It asks. “No, not of him. Another.” Cryptic, vague words rumble from the beast. “But who, I wonder?” The wolf noses at his arm, his hand before it comes to sit before him, facing sideways as though it would get up and continue its prowl._

_Jesse runs his hand up it’s head and frowns. Despite his glove he can feel the fur- it feels very real. Too real. And slowly, the beast turns to face forward- instead of a matching dark grey eye, one made of metal and glass peers at him. The glowing blue iris stares at him, small whirring coming from behind its prosthetic eye piece._

_“What the fuck?” He jerks his hand away from the wolf and clambers back, heart hammering wild in his chest._

_The wolf throws its head back and laughs. “How much of the world have you seen, fledgling?” When Jesse doesn’t answer it prowls forward, baring yellow teeth dripping with stringy saliva. “Can you see what is hunting you?”_

_Jesse kicks at the beast. “I sure as fuck can,” He tries to keep it at bay. “I ain’t about to be your meal.” His boot connects with the wolf’s jaw._

_It snaps at his shoe, teeth digging into leather as it shakes vigorously. “It likes to play with its prey too.”_

_“Get offa me!” He tries to scoot back more but the wolf holds fast. He’s scrambling and clawing at the floor when it’s teeth sink through his boot._

_“Open your eyes,”_

_“Let go!”_

_“Wake up,”_

_Jesse kicks out again, hits something solid. The faces around the room have their eyes all trained on him. He screams, makes a loud noise to try and scare the wolf away from him. It’s uneven glare won’t leave him, makes him feel queasy-._

“Jesse.”

He wakes with a start, still thrashing as if the wolf awoke with him, but finds himself unable to move. His throat burns, sweat covers his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck stand and he can feel his heart still hammering in his chest. It’s only soft soothing words that bring him back to reality.

He’s in his bed with Hanzo’s arms wrapped around him, keeping him contained. The archer is at his back, slightly alarmed, and breathing against his neck with soft huffs of effort as he restrains the cowboy.

“Hanzo?”

His companion lets out a sigh of relief, his hold relaxing only the slightest. “You were having a nightmare and I could not wake you.”

Jesse chews at his cheek, remembers kicking at the beast who bit at him. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, but I was afraid you would hurt yourself.”

Neither of them move, but he feels less trapped than he felt in that room with the prowling wolf. He laces his fingers with Hanzo’s against his chest, leans down into the pillow and relaxes. “Thanks, darlin’.”

Hanzo presses closer, curls around him more as though he could protect Jesse from things like nightmares and the ghosts of people he’s done wrong. “I have- I have done nothing that warrants your gratitude.”

Jesse chuckles, weak and tired. He’s afraid to sleep again, and under normal circumstances, he would get up, make coffee and wait for the morning to greet him. Instead, he tucks into the man at his back, allowing himself to drift with Hanzo’s face pressed gently against his neck.. “Always here for me, hon. Always worthy of it.”

The archer hums, leans over and kisses Jesse’s cheek. “Get some rest,” He urges. “I am going nowhere.”

-

When Jesse first picked up smoking, he’d bitched and complained about the price. The ‘Sin Tax’ had only risen on tobacco products alongside the availability of methods to quit. It was a now habit meant for those in the lap of luxury, but it calmed his nerves and his superiors always looked the other way when he obtained cigars through alternative, cheaper, and maybe illegal means.

He’s thankful for them on days like this, being forced to sit in a cramped monitor room with Reaper, waiting and watching the security team go about their day. He tries to keep his focus on their tactics, their routines, but he can’t focus when he can practically feel the other man’s urge to slip into conversation.

It’s hard not to- the familiarity of a bygone era lingers, same as with Genji. Only, Genji hadn’t stood five feet from him while he was dying from sepsis and done nothing. Genji was never a voyeur on Jesse’s suffering under Talon’s rule.

Reaper shifts, lurching forward in his chair and flips on his comm. “You boys ready?” He grouses from behind his mask.

Jesse can’t blame him for the irritability.

Their mission, Jesse’s first since his reinstatement, is a fairly simple one - they’re to test the security team of some government funded company. Reaper doesn’t trust them, and truth be told, neither does Jesse. Whether that’s a feeling borne of their time spent in black ops remains to be seen.

What doesn’t need time to reveal is how unprepared the company’s security is. There are no evac plans for the scientists who work there, no back exits, and not all entrances are monitored. These are just some of the flaws discovered in their first run through.

“We are moving.” Hanzo informs them through the comm, a half sentence in Japanese making it through the line before it cuts out, likely discussing something with Genji.

The two brothers are set to invade the company grounds and ‘eliminate’ any guards and employees by marking them with paint. Meanwhile, Jesse and Reaper watch the security feeds like hawks, noting mistakes and flaws, writing a clean report to the company head about what needs improvement and what was satisfactory.

But nothing is satisfactory thus far, even taking into account Hanzo and Genji’s incredible skill at this sort of espionage. The guards are sloppy, don’t communicate often enough, and each of them tries to be a hero when shit goes down. That usually ends in all of them marked.

Reaper watches two guards get marked and grumbles, a sound more like a growl under his nightmarish voice. “Who the fuck trained these shits?” He asks aloud. “Who gave them this job?”

Jesse shrugs, takes a deep pull on his cigar.

“This kinda bullshit,” He gestures to a monitor when one of the guards gets spooked and shoots paint into the shadows, likely believing one of the brothers to be there. “Would never fly under my watch.”

“Dunno ‘bout that,” Jesse drawls, “I’d say just Genji ‘n I alone were worse. Not even mentionin’ the rest of us back then.”

Reaper waves him off, still focused on the screen. “No, all of you were decent. Good. Awful little shits, _ingrates_ ,” He laughs around the word, “But you knew when it came to the job, you had to buckle down and get it done.”

Jesse huffs. “Didn’t have much of a choice. Without Blackwatch, we were all dead men.” The cowboy leans back, watches with a smile as Hanzo knocks the legs of a guard out from under him and marks him with paint.

“It was a shame, what you were forced to do.”

“Wasn’t the worst gig to land, and hey,” Jesse kicks up his boots onto the desk, ignores the glare he can feel creeping his way as he does. “Taught me all I needed to know to survive after. Gotta give ya points for makin’ us tough as nails.”

Reaper doesn’t immediately respond - he seems preoccupied noting down something new the security team has done wrong - but when he finally speaks, it’s soft and quiet and Jesse doesn’t quite pick it up.

“Pardon?”

“We tried to get you out.”

Jesse pauses, then shifts uneasily in his seat, tries to drown himself in the smoke of his cigar. His voice is smaller than it means to be. “Don’t gotta make up stories. You were just as scared of Talon as I was- ain’t nothin’ else to it.”

Reaper finally looks away from the monitor, stares straight at the cowboy. Even with the mask on, Jesse knows and it makes him squirm. “You are and aren’t wrong. I find them unsettling- terrifying. But we did come for you. Talon figured out too quickly and moved you, they had to keep their dog on a tight leash.”

It explains the sudden upheaval from the base in Spain to the base in the US.

“We-” Reaper taps his pen against the console. “We were more careful with our next attempt. There were still faces among us that Talon wasn’t familiar with.”

“Hanzo.”

The former commander grunts and leans back in his chair. “That dragon of yours was supposed to investigate your new whereabouts before we knocked you out cold and dragged you back kicking and screaming to our doorstep. Before he got himself caught.”

Jesse chuckles, a weak and reedy sound because he isn’t sure what to think of all of this. He’s warmed by the thought of them trying for him, but troubled about how Talon knew they were coming for him. They moved him, kept him out of reach from the people who wanted to save him. “He wasn’t far off his marker. Got caught, caught me a cold, and boy was I kicking and screaming.”

Reaper shakes his head, fondness coloring his voice. “You sure were. Good to know everything we taught you didn’t go in one ear and out the other.”

“Ain’t all from you- I picked up some of my own tricks.” Jesse smirks and cocks his head, pushing against the familiarity of the scene. Long ago he’d be teasing Gabriel, be it a successful prank on the commander or the shitheel young man giving his superior officer a hard time. “Would knock you flat on your ass.”

The ex-commander leans into his chair, stares at Jesse a little too long to be comfortable before he speaks. “We won’t let them take you. Not again.”

Promises. Promises. “We both know there ain’t no stoppin’ Talon from gettin’ what they want. They want their dog back.”

Reaper grunts. “Shame, you’re no trainable mutt.” He shifts, restless. Something is eating away at the wraith, an inability to find the right words. “That hunk of plastic doesn’t mean shit.”

“It means a helluva lot, Gabriel.” The name sticks to the roof of his mouth, so many years left unsaid. “Everybody knows it, they just don’t wanna say it, not to my face. I’m a liability- Talon’s after me and I’ve just compromised the entire watchpoint, intentional or not.”

“It’s a toy.”

Jesse curls his lip around his cigar. He reaches for his lighter and plays with the lid, popping it open and closed, repetition to soothe the agitation he feels rearing its ugly head. He’s on a mission, he’s a probationary agent, he can’t afford to let irritation get in the way of the ability to do his job. “A toy I saw in the freezer of the last Talon hideout I was ever in. A toy with a real eye, straight out of some poor fella’s head.” He cringes, remembering the ugly squish as he destroyed the toy. “Look at all the facts, then look me in the eyes and tell me that furby don’t mean shit again.”

The wraith tenses, tilts his head as if to scowl, and turns back to the monitors.

“’S what I thought.”

They don’t speak the rest of the mission, drawing into themselves and focusing on the task at hand. Jesse is relieved when the brothers join them, their presence fills the room with energy instead of the tense silence he and Reaper share.

If Hanzo notices this, he says nothing. He shares Jesse’s cigar with him, as thieving as ever, plucking it from the cowboy right as he goes for a pull, and stays close. They linger just too close together as they debrief the company and give the report of its flaws, and it’s only when they’re back on the transport that Hanzo weaves their fingers together, brings Jesse’s knuckles up to his face and brushes his cheeks against them.

He never asks if anything is wrong because he already knows. Sometimes there are panic spells that take the wind out of him, but other times they can just be a foul mood. There’s too much left between him and his old commander.

Jesse thanks him in return, kissing the back of the archer’s gloved hand and then mimicking the dragon and presses his cheek to Hanzo’s knuckles. The dragon leans into him for the rest of the ride home and in their own little corner next to an old concert poster and the coffee machine; they doze.

-

A sharp snap rings out in the matted walls of the weight room and the large, shadowy figure of Reaper stumbles back, feeling tenderly at his jaw. His ivory mask is cracked, one of the vented sides snapped off, revealing sharp teeth protruding from his cheeks in rows just a bit too wide for a normal human’s visage.

He chuckles, full bodied and with that strange reverberation imparted on him with death. “Still have a mean right hook.”

Jesse grins, flexes his flesh hand - the knuckles pop after the force of the punch, but surprisingly, he remains unharmed. “My left one’s even meaner.”

It may have been too strong of a blow for the friendly spar they agreed upon, but Jesse cares little. He’s seen enough of how Reaper fights in skirmishes to know there’s little that can actually put him down.

Besides, there’s something cathartic about wailing on an old ghost he hasn’t forgiven. He’s heard it more than once, from Reaper and from Genji, about all the plans they had to get Jesse away from Talon - one might have even included putting him to sleep in a large box and shipping him off the base as weapons cargo.

Regardless, it doesn’t ease the sting of knowing Reaper was there; Gabriel was there, a man he once looked up to, stood by and let them take his knee, his arm, his life.

The wraith stares at him from behind his broken mask, a tendril of smoke slithering from his cheek and revealing a flash of more teeth, more open wounds. It’s unnerving, even for Jesse who watched his own arm wither away, if he looks too long.

“Stop flirting and fight already!”

Reaper turns his head sharply to the rafters where the Shimada brothers are perched, watching the sparring match unfold.

The cowboy rotates his shoulder, lets out a soft groan when that joint pops as well. “Don’t that bother you? Bein’ watched like that?” Once upon a time, Commander Reyes was particular about who watched him fight, was careful not to let anyone know his weaknesses.

“That’s how they learn.” The wraith turns back to him, ignoring Genji blowing a kiss from the rafters with a head bob to the side in place of a wink. He crouches the barest amount, arms loose and ready to throw his fists.

Jesse blinks, looks up to the dragons sitting side by side on a beam, and then readies himself as well. “Learn what?”

Reaper jabs at him, “Movement,” feints left, “Speed,” swipes right, “Method.” He laughs to himself, or maybe at Jesse’s confusion. “One day you’ll see it.”

He’s rapidly becoming far more aware of Hanzo’s eyes, critically watching everything he does. It distracts him, in the right way and yet at the same time, the wrong way. He puts too much power into his next punch at Reaper, his prosthetic hissing away as pressure builds.

He always liked showing off too much.

His fist launches with a crack, a mini sonic boom following the speed of his throw. Jesse’s breath flies from his chest, recalling the hole in the regenerative punching bags, the system’s analysis of the force. Clean through someone’s chest.

Of all people, he’s glad it’s Reaper he loses his focus on.

The man wraiths, coalescing into shadows that swarm out and away with a hiss. Pieces cling to the ground as he moves away, evaporating into nothing once away from the thing that is Reyes and whatever he’s become.

Genji is suddenly on the ground, quick as lightning. He puts his body between the two of them, tension in the set of his shoulders, fingers curled around his blade. “Gabriel,”

Reaper materializes wholly, hand feeling over his chest where Jesse’s punch had landed, grunting softly as his hand finds a tender spot. “I’m fine.” He tilts his head, the dark eyes of his mask seeming to glare straight through Genji and into the cowboy’s head. “Careful there cowboy, keep your head. Not everyone can recover from having their chest pulverized.”

Despite the wraith’s status and casual tone, the situation doesn’t diffuse. Jesse wants to say something- anything, but the words catch in his throat. Genji stares him down, or at least, that’s what the cowboy assumes he’s doing, and keeps his hand tight on his weapon.

Pulverized. The word sticks like molasses in his mind, seeping into every train of thought. Destructive; nothing he touches stays for long. He chances a look at Hanzo who still sits in the rafters - he looks nonchalant, but Jesse can see a furious storm in those bright blue eyes- they’re trained on his brother.

How long before he ruins the archer? How long before his actions cost them the life of one dragon, or worse, both?

Before he can think past that the lights in the facility go out, the only sources of illumination coming from the Shimada’s and from his prosthetic arm.

He’s reaching for his comm when he notices it’s not just the lights that are out- the moving target bots in the back have stopped, slumped over in a powerless stasis, the comms are eerily silent, and there’s a deep wrenching groan from the base as all the locks unseal.

There’s no energy, no scan field up- no security.

The darkness swarms Jesse, crawls up his neck and wraps around his throat. His chest is impossibly tight, making him suck in short breaths as he tries to breath, tries to focus but there’s so little to focus on.

Genji is bolting, the haze of shadow that is Reaper following close behind - dimming his lights when he’s close to the cyborg - and it leaves Jesse alone.

“Jesse,” Hanzo’s scales outline his face, flickering in the darkness, and his arm as he reaches for the cowboy, having come down from the rafters.

He latches onto the dragon’s clothes, wrenches his fists into the fabric and pulls Hanzo close. They grunt as they collide, but the gunslinger cares little, needs an anchor. “It’s them.” He hisses, panic and fear mixing together in his gut and making it roil. “Hanzo, it’s-”

The watchpoint groans again, the backup generators kicking in for the lights, casting everything in a heavy crimson glow.

In one second, the comms crackle to life.

In the next, the proximity warning lights blare.

In the third second, his fears are confirmed.

‘ _There’s a breach in the hangar._ ’

‘ _The east side security terminals have been shut down._ ’

‘ _There’s not enough power to initiate the locks._ ’

Fear wars with the desire to fight, the need to defend the space in which Jesse has made himself home.

Hanzo flares brightly, his scales rippling with light and electric sparks. “Do you have your gun?”

Jesse shakes his head, the weight of Peacekeeper absent from his side. A foolish move, really, to leave it behind even though it was just supposed to be a spar. This exact scenario is why it remains loaded beneath his pillow when he sleeps.

Of course, it’s the one time he leaves it that he needs it most.

More calls come over the comms, the base is being swarmed, overrun. Most of the team is defending from Hangar 3, the central hub, and the medbay. It remains to be seen how long they can keep up their defenses.

Hanzo takes his hand, leads him out. “Come, the detour will not-”

‘ _They’re climbing the walls!_ ’

‘ _What are they-_ ’ A loud thump filters over the comm. ‘ _Are they- they’re throwing themselves at the windows!_ ’

The cowboy pulls out of his grasp and shakes his head. “They need all the help they can get, I’ll be fine.” They need Hanzo, whether they know it or not. The dragons will take down hordes of agents with no problems, with the same ferocity and grace as in the baggage storage, all those months ago. “I’ll meet you-”

A burst of static erupts over the comm, followed by a loud clatter and distant yelling.

“Go,” Jesse urges, lets himself be pulled in for a sharp kiss, a plea for him to be safe. “I’ll be okay.” He promises the archer again, although if he’s entirely truthful, the words are more for himself than anyone else. He can handle getting to his room, getting his gun, and reaching the others- combat is not a panic situation for him. If anything, the adrenaline of fighting clears his mind, helps him focus.

‘ _Are those omnics!?_ ’

‘ _Why are they bleeding?!?_ ’

Hanzo gives him one last look, the need to argue and stay by his side clear as day on the dragon’s face. But even he knows he’s of better service elsewhere. He stands up on his toes to kiss Jesse’s cheek, takes his hand and whispers, “Do not do anything stupid, cowboy.”

He grins back, uneasy, but he tries, for Hanzo’s sake. “I make no promises, darlin’.”

Their hands stick together for as long as possible, their fingertips the last things to separate. He feels the electrical energy from Hanzo minutes after they’ve parted, dancing through his limb.

The route back to their room is eerily quiet, no signs of life anywhere. It’s unnerving- the lack of Athena’s panels and screens, and how empty it all seems without her symbol slowly turning against a white background.

Each door he comes to is pulled open, the automated systems offline and the locks released still. Jesse looks over his shoulder before he goes through each one and is sure to close them behind him; he’ll hear them long before they see him if Talon comes this way.

His eyes burn as the red soaks into everything, and he begins to think that everything it touches will forever carry a hint of the hue.

He stops for a second in front of his door, and it’s perhaps that second that costs him everything.

They come from the shadows, hands - hard and unyielding - grab his arms and his shoulders. He manages to grab one back, pitches his weight forward and flings the offender over his shoulder, it’s weapon skittering across the floor. It lands in the hall with a sickening squelch that masks a crunch. Metal, coated in something human, something flesh-like.

The hands pin Jesse down, the weight of five men piling on top of him and keeping him beneath them. He thrashes, manages to dislodge two of them and keep himself upright, just barely.

Jesse swings his fist, lets the pneumatics build up pressure quickly and sinks his hand into the chest of an attacker. The victim doesn’t crumple and it certainly doesn’t wraith, it’s hands latch onto his arm with a vice grip, pull him deeper until it’s body holds his arm steady.

Metal and muscle sinew ooze from the wound, if it can even be called that, and with his arm out of commission, entombed in a half-organic body, he’s powerless to stop the arm that circles around his throat.

The darkness returns with demons that cackle and claw at him, dragging him down and robbing him of his vision. Bile rises from his stomach, empties over his chin and down the offender’s arm but it doesn’t phase them. Why would it? Whatever they are, it isn’t human.

A single thought, a pinprick in the fading light - at least the red is gone.

-

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacey, McCree.”

Jesse’s head pounds and his throat burns, his body suddenly feels too small. He knows what Angela will tell him if he goes to her, he needs more rest- he can always ask Hanzo to get water for him. After five more minutes. He sinks back against the wall he’s leaning on to resume his nap.

A metallic hand slaps at his cheek rapidly. “Wake up.” A synthetic voice barks.

He jolts. Reality breaks into him- a Talon raid, being accosted. His chest seizes up as he tries to move his arms by finds them bound behind him, he worms about, trying to get on his feet but finds his ankles bound too. “Wha-” He mumbles, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

“Intelligent.” His captor says sarcastically. “Here,” They pluck a device from their ear and move it toward him.

The cowboy reels, tips himself over to keep away from whatever implant it plans to put in him.

An unforgiving hand grips his jaw, hauls him back into a sitting position and roughly jams the device in his ear. “Calm down. Boss only wants a word.”

‘ _Hello, McCree._ ’

Fear sinks into him like ice, stripping the air from his lungs. His eyes go wide, staring into the visor of his captor, and instead of a face blinking back at him through the tinted glass, a red, robotic sensor stare back.

‘ _What? No hello? Even after I was so good to you?_ ’

He swallows, “Howdy,” and he hates how small his voice sounds. For all the bluster he could put up around Boss, he’s weak here. He’s at the mercy of the omnic that holds his neck in a bruising vice, he can’t get an even footing toward Boss by digging at his pet peeves. There are no large desks for him to prop his feet up on.

‘ _Better,_ ’ the man purrs over the comm. ‘ _You will be going with my new friend there, we have let you off the leash for long enough._ ’

“Why- now why would I do that?”

‘ _I have a feeling you’ll want to, especially when you hear what my spider has in her web. Tell him, my dear._ ’

Another line opens to the comm, and through it a series of quick clicks and hisses pour through, followed by a voice he know well. A voice so cold, so unlike the last time he heard it, that he nearly weeps then and there. ‘ _He is angry._ ’

‘ _Who?_ ’

Jesse can’t help the soft plea for it to stop from slipping through his clenched teeth. He knows who they see, who Widowmaker stares at in her scope. He can imagine it clearly, the woman on a perch far off, crosshairs tracking every movement the man in question makes.

‘ _Hanzo Shimada._ ’ His name in her unfeeling tone fills the well of his terror, smothers him with the despair that there’s nothing he can do.

Boss’ laugh makes Jesse want to scream, to hit something, but he can’t with metal holding him still. ‘ _Describe him, let McCree know that we aren’t playing around this time._ ’

Widowmaker shifts, the click of her heels audible over the open line. ‘ _He’s wearing a red ribbon in his hair today._ ’ It wasn’t a lie, but he can’t focus on that, not when he hears her sharp intake of breath and the hesitation when she speaks. ‘ _The- the bastard does not care who sees the marks you leave on him. They are fresh._ ’ Her line clicks off.

The marks he left the previous night. An affection that was bitten into his shoulders and in marks left down his back- everything littered pink from touches they both tried to steal from each other. Jesse chews the inside of his cheek, face burning red in the face of his captor.

‘ _My offer to let you come quietly still stands, McCree. Or, I can have our spider pull the trigg-_ ’

“I’ll come quietly.”

The silence on the other end speaks volumes, gives Jesse a bargaining chip. ‘ _Good choice._ ’

“Give me until tomorrow.”

Boss hums, toying with him. ‘ _Convince me._ ’

Jesse finds it hard to think quickly with the omnic still holding him, visor lights boring into him, likely recording the experience so that Boss can relive it later. It wouldn’t be the first time the man kept blackmail videos for his own personal pleasure. “I can get you files.”

‘ _We already have those. Our new agents are remarkably adept at technology. You’ll be coming today-_ ’

“They’ll know I was taken.” He blurts out, the lack of admonishment urges him to continue. “If I go now, they’ll think I was taken during the attack. They’ll try to rescue me, come after me. If I leave tomorrow, enough of them will believe that I left on my own.” Jesse tries not to choke on his own words. “They won’t come for me.”

‘ _Strange that you would suggest a plan that minimizes the chances of your survival._ ’

“I have a condition.”

Boss grumbles, the sharp ‘thunk’ of a knife digging into his desk coming through the comm. ‘ _More favors, McCree? My word, your freedom has made you ballsy. It’ll be a shame to take that away. What do you propose?_ ’

He clenches his eyes, sends a prayer to the heavens, hopes that someone is listening and makes this work. “Leave Hanzo alone. Don’t touch him.”

‘ _Deal._ ’ The Talon leader responds far too quickly, draws suspicion into every fiber of Jesse’s being. ‘ _See you tomorrow, McCree. I’ll have a friend send coordinates for your pickup._ ’ He shuts the link down before the cowboy can rightly accuse him of being up to something.

The omnic releases his chin, reaches down and wrenches apart the metal rods that served as his bonds. They pull apart like dough under its touch, despite having no give when he’d tried to free himself. Its strength makes him wary, especially when it moves to his back.

It forces him to lean forward, plucks the comm out of his ear and replaces it in its own- though he isn’t sure ‘ear’ is the right word for it. It pauses for a brief moment, hands at his wrists, and laughs. “Boss would like me to tell you that should you fail to come to us, the next attack won’t be a distraction. And if you tell anyone, we’ll kill them all.”

Jesse feels it burning in his chest, thawing out the icy fear that gripped him only moments before. It expands faster than ever, builds up behind his eyes and as soon as his hands are free, he flings himself forward.

He grabs at the discarded pistol from the one attacker he managed to take down. The second it’s in his grip, everything pulls into a singularity. The omnic, surprised and calculating how to deal with him, is too slow for the draw of deadeye.

The gun fires faster than it can handle, bullets pelting the omnic, piercing its cranial and chest units. He can’t count how many, can’t tell if the omnic is down for good, not when the pistol bursts wide in his hand.

Shrapnel blows back, cuts into his arm, scratching the metal of his prosthetic, and grazing his face. His eye burns, the swelling beginning, but it’s nothing compared to the pain in his hand.

He’s done this before, fired a weapon that can’t handle what his curse demands of it. The only guns that survive are revolvers, their ammo far more limited in number and the more solid the material, the more contained, the better. Not forever, but better. The only revolver that has lasted years has been Peacekeeper.

The cowboy can’t rightly assess the damage, doesn’t feel the pressing need to. His hand bleeds, he’s sure something’s at least fractured if not worse, and he has trouble moving it, that’s about as far as he can get before numbness wraps around him and with draws everything he is.

Help. He needs help.

He stands up and leaves the Blackwatch wing, the base passing him by in a muted blur. Jesse doesn’t know why he’s not running, why he hasn’t wrapped his hand up or used one of the illuminated panels to call for someone. Everything is underwater, heavy and taxing to move through as he weathers on.

The main meeting hall doors are closed, but he can hear muffled shouting behind them as he draws closer, his head feeling lighter with each step.

“He would not just leave!” Hanzo sounds furious. Widowmaker did say he was angry.

“I’m sorry, Shimada. He has- he always does. He pulled one over on all of us, it’s what he’s good at.” Soldier: 76, voice rough and authoritative.

Something sparks, a desire to stand beside the dragon as he fights, prevent the veteran commander’s prejudice against Jesse from bleeding over to the archer. Hanzo still has his chance.

“You do not know the McCree that I do!”

“And you don’t know the one we did!”

Jesse takes a second, a moment to lean against the door and breath because oxygen is so scarce, so precious under the world that’s weighing down on him like lead it’s smothering him until he can’t feel anything else. “Stop yellin’ at him, stop.” He whispers to himself with what little air he grabs.

He slowly musters the will to push open the door and stumble halfway in.

Soldier shrinks back at his appearance, Hanzo looks at him wild-eyed and fraught with distress. He can’t meet the dragon’s gaze, can’t keep his eyes focused on much of anything.

“My hand…” He holds up his injured limb. “I could only find a pistol.”

Angela stands quickly, pulls off her lab coat and uses it to wrap around his arm and hand.

Jesse tries to unwrap it, frowning. “That’ll get dirty.”

“Jesse,” She combats him, uses her body to herd him into the hallway and lets the door swing shut behind her. He continues to unwrap it, yanking at the white fabric. “Jesse,”

He still doesn’t listen until he’s peeled off the coat and frowns at the red stain.

“Jesse.” Her voice is firm, her hands on his face to draw him in, releases him instantly when he flinches at her touch. “Please.”

The gunslinger slowly draws his gaze to her. She makes a face but he can’t quite place what it is. “I’ll replace it, promise.” He says when she wraps his arm again.

Angela ushers him down the hall with a wave of her hands, sticks close to him until they get to the medbay and he’s sitting in a chair with his arm propped up, but she doesn’t touch him again. Not until she scoots up on a stool in front of him and begins to assess the damage.

He allows her to poke and prod, knows it’s helping him, but he can’t stand anything else, not now when he feels like there’s nothing left of him- like the last deadeye fired everything inside of him with it.

Wrapping his hand again eases the tension in her posture and she lets out a sigh of relief. “The damage isn’t severe. You are lucky, mostly superficial cuts.”

Jesse leans his head back as she tends to his hand, closes his eyes and prays the burn from deadeye will cease soon. The swelling isn’t as bad as he expected, but it still feels like there’s something pooling behind his eye like molten lava.

The snip of plastic tells him it’s done, and when he looks down, he can see where the Rose Bengal dye holds together his skin.

She wipes down the rest of his arm, careful to look for any lingering shrapnel that may have embedded itself in him. Angela knows that if she doesn’t find it, he will, and he won’t come to her for assistance- he’s got a pair of perfectly good tweezers to do the job. She won’t chew him out for it, not unless he comes to her because a piece was deeper than it seemed.

The door slides open, making him jump.

“Jesse,” Hanzo stares at him, looking him up, down, and scowling.

He follows the archer’s gaze, finds his prosthetic hand with a deathgrip on Angela’s leg. Guilt pours over him and he lets go instantly, she’ll bruise, days after he’s gone she’ll have reminders that he betrayed them all.

She smiles at him, stands and carts the suture supplies out, leaving the two men alone.

Hanzo is on him in a second, cupping the cowboy’s cheeks and leaning over him- the touch pulls him from underwater and warms him like the sun. Their foreheads bump together and Jesse can finally pick something to focus on. The small wrinkles between the archer’s knitted brows and pained expression. The faint shudder and the trembling. He’s holding back, _feeling everything twice as much._

“Darlin’,”

“I thought- I thought they took you.” Hanzo bleats, holding on and nothing more, as though he were afraid the sharpshooter would slip through his fingers. He has no idea how right he’s about to be.

Jesse shakes under his touch, but all the same he urges the archer into his lap with a metal hand on his back. “They didn’t.” Not yet.

Hanzo’s eyes open, blue and glowing violently but in them, Jesse feels safe. He feels safe under that gaze, as though Talon weren’t demanding his life or the life of his friends and partner. “I could not find you, Athena’s systems are not completely online, she could not see where you went- I feared-”

The dragon presses his face against Jesse’s, before drawing away to stare down at the cowboy. “I would have ripped the world asunder to find you.”

He hopes Hanzo will keep that promise, but Jesse’s just as scared of him doing exactly that. Talon has to know what he is, they have to be prepared for it, prepared to take anything they want. Prepared to kill anything that stands to threaten them.

“I cannot lose you, Jesse.” He whispers.

And perhaps there’s Jesse McCree’s greatest weakness, his downfall after surviving this world so long- he would rather die than lose Hanzo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much love (as usual) to Akirata for their time and their friendship. I love you haney, with all my heart!
> 
> And thank you for those who have subbed on my patreon! It means so much to me to have your support! <3
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	13. Camellia Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit content in the beginning!  
> If you wish to skip it, crtl+f for 'A stifling warmth wakes'
> 
> My apologies for the extreme delay since last chapter. Life, y'know? But we're still truckin away on this bad boy and have no plans of stopping!  
> 

Jesse is restless beside him in the bed - tossing and turning with soft huffs. Something bothers the cowboy, keeping him awake. It isn’t the first time Jesse’s had a sleepless night in his presence, and it will not be the last. However, this is the first time he hasn’t sought out Hanzo’s comfort.

When his nightmares and his ghosts bleed into the waking world, Jesse grasps and tucks into the archer. Even if it means waking him up - of which Hanzo assured him that it was alright, that he’d rather be awake than letting him suffer alone - his mate shouldn’t hesitate in asking to be held.

Tonight is a different story.

Hanzo lets the cowboy shuffle for ten minutes more, hoping that he will settle and fall asleep, but it never happens. He rolls in the bed, and meets wide, wet brown eyes.

“Ah, sorry hun,” The cowboy croaks, wiping at his eyes furiously with the back of his hand, leaving them drier but red all around. “Didn’t mean to wake ya.”

The archer draws his eyebrows in concern, rests his arm over Jesse’s waist. “You did not. I could not sleep either.” Not when he was worried about the gunslinger’s state of mind. The day hadn’t been easy and Hanzo’s mind still races whenever he thinks about how Jesse just disappeared.

His fingers find purchase on the thick flesh of Jesse’s side, reminding him that his mate, his sunshine is still there. Something brews in the gunslinger’s mind, something troubles him but Hanzo can’t pry, unable to see past him in the waking world.

As much as he despises it, there are things, more often than not, that even Hanzo can’t fix. Sometimes he is suffocated under weight the gunslinger can’t let go of, and there are demons so big that even he is brought low by them.

Strong hands slide up his arm, winding up around his shoulder and to the back of his neck. Before he knows it, Jesse is dragging him into a slow, heady kiss that he drowns in. Their lips part, breath mingling and Hanzo catches his gaze, oddly reverent and determined behind the wet shine of his eyes. He takes note of the gunslinger’s fingers grazing up his jawline, thumbing just under his eye. Surprise takes him when Jesse pulls his head in, pressing his cheek to the archer’s, and too soon they are clutching each other in desperation.

Hanzo doesn’t want to lose him, can’t bare to stomach the thought, so he lets his fingers curl into the gunslinger’s hip like a vice.

If Jesse is trying to keep his demons at bay, if he needs the distraction instead of dealing with it, tonight Hanzo will oblige him.

Their bare legs tangle and Hanzo pulls their hips flush together, drawing groans out of both men. Jesse ruts, cocking his hip and tangling his good hand in Hanzo’s hair, beard and stubble scraping him until the gunslinger’s head tucked against the archer’s neck where his puffs of breath heat up the space between them.

Hanzo’s hands wander down the broad expanse of Jesse’s back, where it softly gives, and his  fingers feel over every muscle that shifts beneath. Any other night, he would revel in his time, tracing the ridges of scars from old stories and the folly of battle, but tonight he has little attention to give to old wounds.

Despite the cowboy’s tendency to tower over him, he feels small in Hanzo’s arms, unsure, like he’s trying to hide himself away. Jesse’s teeth worry at his shoulder, nipping and kissing until the spot is red from the attention. He creates more and more marks along Hanzo’s skin with the intent on leaving as many as possible before the sensation becomes too much.

The archer returns the favor in a less than graceful fashion, taking large handfuls of the cowboy’s ass, roughly pawing at him. Hanzo uses this leverage to drag him closer, delighting in the hitch in Jesse’s voice and the stuttered groan bursting against his skin -  his teeth sinking in more than they should. Hanzo’s fingers slip between the cleft of Jesse’s ass, finding the place still tacky with drying lube from earlier in the night.

It won’t be enough.

The archer’s hand moves in slow circles at the meat of jesse’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart. His finger grazes over Jesse’s opening, testing, and the man tenses in his arms, a hiss slipping through gritted teeth.

Hanzo withdraws his hands. “Sensitive?”

“Sore,” The cowboy chuckles, nips at his neck. “You get real rough when you’re worried about me.”

“We do not have to-”

“No!” Jesse shouts abruptly, then quiets himself. “Please, Hanzo.” Something passes over those eyes, usually so vibrant and adoring, but now he’s not sure. He can’t read Jesse’s face. “I can handle it, please, I promise, I just- don’t stop.”

The way his voice falls tears at Hanzo’s chest and fills it with the desire rend in the name of the gunslinger, but with nothing to invoke his wrath he must turn his attention elsewhere. “Roll over, my dear.” He purrs, tugging at the gunslinger’s hip.

He reaches over to grab the bottle of lube from the bedside table, but Jesse beats him to it, grabbing it and holding it just out of reach. Hanzo snarls under his breath, but scoffs, rolling his hips so that he grinds up into the cowboy. The gunslinger gasps but holds out, so the archer repeats the action - again and again with a firm, deliberate slowness until Jesse fumbles and falls pliant and lose, arm curling close to his body.

Hanzo strikes in that moment of weakness, pausing mid-roll and snatches the lube from his fingers. “Y-y’can’t play me dirty like that, Haney.” Jesse’s voice breaks and Hanzo simply chuckles.

“If you wish to play fair,” Hanzo kisses the gunslinger, teeth grazing over his lips as he retreats. “then do not pick a fight with a dragon.”.

“Hanzo,” His mate begs sweetly, wiggling his hips backward, seeking  friction again.

The archer could give in, comply and sink into simple pleasure, but he has other plans. He kisses along Jesse’s shoulders as he pours a generous amount lube into his hand. Clicking it shut, he tosses it aside and uses his clean hand to lift Jesse’s leg.

The covers slip down, and exposed to the room, the cowboy shudders from the rush of cool air and arches forward. He outright yelps when Hanzo slicks cold lubricant along his inner thighs, between his ass and along the stretch of skin before his genitals.

Hanzo shifts just so that his dick rests between Jesse’s legs, lowering the one he had raised to create a snug grip. Jesse for his part, whines and turns his head into the pillow, tries to touch himself until his hand is swatted away. As much as Hanzo would like to watch the man pleasure himself, tonight he is impatient.

The dragon takes hold of Jesse’s cock, strokes it and begins thrusting between the cowboy’s thighs in time. It doesn’t take long for the steady rhythm to work into a frenzy, bolstered by Jesse’s sweet cries.

Faster than he’d like, though if he had his way he’d tease Jesse with this for hours, the cowboy begins to go rigid with the beginning of his end. Hanzo urges him to let go, “So good for me, Jesse.” He snarls into the gunslinger’s ear, biting at the lobe. He picks up his pace, getting a better stance by propping himself up and leaning over Jesse. He snaps his hips harder now, determined to finish with him.

But with a cry, Jesse’s spilling on the sheets, going boneless, and Hanzo’s approaching orgasm falls away with the lack of pressure.

He grunts, lets go of Jesse’s cock to wrap his arms around the gunslinger. Hanzo rolls back until the cowboy’s solid weight lays upon him. Hanzo bites into Jesse’s neck, working the flesh with his teeth and holds tight when his hips lose their rhythm, so close, _so close_.

Jesse tries to coax him over, reaches down between him and digs his prosthetic into Hanzo’s hips and _begs_. “Please, baby, come on,” He asks, voice ragged.

It’s not enough.

His hip locks up and he falls to the bed, his dick slipping from between Jesse’s grasp and his thighs. Frustrated, he takes himself in hand - it will do for him.

“Wait-.” Jesse bleats, who rolls over and takes Hanzo’s hand away.

The archer watches raptly as Jesse resumes his ministrations, understanding reaching him when the gunslinger slides down, peppering hanzo in little bites as he maneuvers towards his cock. “Jesse,” The cowboy looks up at him. “You do not have to.”

“I wanna,” His lips curl at the corners when he smiles, kissing the thatch of hair at Hanzo’s crotch before licking his lips and taking all of Hanzo into his mouth in one fell swoop. Hanzo nearly chokes, more surprised that Jesse doesn’t- but he doesn’t tease, and for that the archer is grateful. He’s come too close to let them revel in any foreplay and with a strangled groan he reaches his long awaited, frustrating end.

It is a welcome relief, leaving Hanzo to catch his breathe and melt as Jesse swallows his mess. The blowjob is swift and efficient, but there is no less affection as Jesse licks and drags his tongue upward.

A bearded cheek rubs against the meat of his thigh, making him jump.

Hanzo glares at the man as he chuckles. “Get up here.” He demands and the cowboy doesn’t listen, at least not straight away.

He spends time around Hanzo’s hips and thighs, kissing and biting tenderly,  scratching at his scales. He trails wet kisses up Hanzo’s chest, laving at the small clusters of iridescent blue as he makes his way up the dragon’s body.

The archer rolls his eyes and threads his fingers through the cowboy’s locks, a fond smile pulling at his lips. “Jesse, we need to sleep.” He pleas.

“Alright- alright.” He agrees, nipping one more time before he rests himself half atop Hanzo. Jesse stretches and wiggles until his head rests against Hanzo’s chest and he has both of the archer’s arms wrapped around him. Only then does he begin relax.

Hanzo noses at Jesse’s hair, hoping that he does not wake again in a few short hours and leaves him to drift.

Unbeknownst to him, the cowboy never sleeps, counting the heartbeats of the dragon and trying to commit the pattern to memory, just as he memorized the pattern of his scales, and the difference between his dragons. When Hanzo squeezes him tightly in his sleep, fingers twitching against his skin, Jesse’s heart breaks just a little more.

-

A stifling warmth wakes Hanzo in a most ungraceful fashion. He kicks off the covers to alleviate the staunch feeling of the temperature overcoming him, but even the lack of blankets does little to aid him. The air around him is heavy with steam, making him hotter when he breathes it in.

He spreads eagle on the bed which alerts him to two things.

One, the sheets are in dire need of a wash… as is he.

And two, Jesse is missing.

Hanzo sits up quickly and takes stock of the room- the sheets are placed neatly over Jesse’s side of the bed. The gunslinger’s hat is still on top of the drawers with his serape still draped over the chair; two things he wouldn’t leave without, not after they were returned to his person..

The sound of the shower running catches his attention, makes his lips curl and his brows furrow. Jesse must be taking a while. There is certainly plenty to clean, and it would explain the mugginess of the air and the steam.

Slipping out of bed, Hanzo approaches the door, left just barely ajar, and gently raps the backs of his knuckles against it. “Jesse,” He croons, “Are you alright? Do not make me wait long to get in there.” He pauses. “Or perhaps you are waiting on _me_?”

The thought taunts him mercilessly. Showers with Jesse are a welcome affair, usually in the aftermath of long nights. He loves the peaceful moment that comes with washing each other; fingers lathering shampoo into their hair, soaping down and emerging together feeling fresh, clean, sated.

“Jesse?” The door gives easily with a gentle push, the steam leaking out from the sliver now billows out in large puffs from the open door. Hanzo scrunches his face from the sudden rush of heat, dragging a hand down his face as if that would stop the condensation from collecting on his skin.

When it clears, the sight is far from what he was expecting.

The mirror is shattered, scattered across the floor with the smaller pieces of it spilled into the sink basin - what happened? When? Why didn’t he notice? The shower is hauntingly empty. It’s door is left open, water no longer warm pooling on the tile and soaking into the bath mat. A towel is tossed over the top of the sliding panel and Jesse’s shampoo bottle is laying open, tipped on it’s side with the contents long since oozed out and down the drain.

Slowly, Hanzo makes his way over to the shower, stepping over the shards of glass that lay abandoned on the ground. Stray pieces crunch under his heel- but he doesn’t linger on it. He twists it’s knobs until the water stops and the last of it slowly swirls down the drain. Pulling the unused towel down, he drapes it over the wet patch on the tiling, trying to ignore the way the air cools too quickly. Inhaling sharply, he steps away.

Jesse isn’t here. Something’s wrong with Jesse.

He turns and strides out, eyes catching Jesse’s comm on the desk, idle and left alone since they retired to their room last night. He quickly snatches it up, thumbs it open and checks his messages.

It’s an invasion of privacy, but given the state the cowboy was in last night, Hanzo worries he is hurt, trying to hide away for a reason the archer doesn’t know. He thumbs at the screen until the messenger opens- the last few messages are from Hana last night, asking to have breakfast with him.

Relief floods him. He’s off with Hana having breakfast, most likely helping her with the aftermath of the attack. And hopefully she is helping him deal with the rage that shattered their mirror- of which Hanzo makes a note to get fixed.

His fingers scrape against the ridges of the communicator. The mirror. The shower. It bothers him. Something twists in his chest and doesn’t settle right in his stomach, but he doesn’t let himself think on it too much. He can’t.

Jesse would enjoy his hat, feel better with it on. That’s the only reason Hanzo even considers joining them, not because he’s agitated and wants to make sure Jesse’s alright. Not because anger still pricks at the back of his mind.

He could’ve prevented it.

He should have stayed with the gunslinger. Inadequacy, failure, and fault. He doesn’t have the time to dwell on such feelings- there’s a cowboy in need of his hat. Hanzo picks up the stetson, patting it free of dust and dirt, and he briefly wonders if he should bring Jesse’s serape as well, until it catches his eye- a piece of paper. It falls, fluttering to the floor with Jesse’s slanted handwriting scrawled across it in hasty lines. A note.

Anxiety roils in Hanzo’s belly as he bends to pick it up, tear stains soaking the paper. Nothing about this feels right, the dread in him twisting in coils, restricting his breath. Hanzo hesitates to turn the letter over.

If he doesn’t read it, Jesse will be in the cafeteria. If he doesn’t acknowledge it, he can stroll out with the hat, shove it on that mess of brown hair he adores so much. If the letter doesn’t exist, Hanzo can cling to the idea that Jesse is still here.

But as he reads the first words of the letter, he can’t deny it. As much as he wishes. As much as he wants. Steadying himself with quick, even breathes, he continues down the page..

_‘Dear Haney,’_

Hanzo swallows a lump in his throat, he can hear the gunslinger’s voice through his writing, as if he were here reading it aloud..

_‘I can’t stay. I got well in over my head but I’m just not made for this kind of life. I would take you with me if I could, but we both know where I’m headed._

_I’d say forgetting about me would be best, but I don’t want you to. Please don’t forget me, Hanzo._

_I love you, my Sweetheart, my Sugarcube, please, please don’t forget._

_-Jesse’_

There are fresh tear stains on the paper. Hanzo stockly wipes them away, his hands clenching into fists, crumpling the letter as the coil bubbles and bursts from up inside of him. His mate- His Jesse. The archer’s body shudders with a gasp, bracing himself. He isn’t-. He can’t be-.

All at once it gives way to an anguished cry, and no force on earth could stop him from splitting into two. The paper floats to the ground - _‘don’t forget’_ \- and Hanzo tries to turn in on himself, keep himself together- one dragon wrapping around the other but it’s not the same as when Jesse holds him and he walks the earth on two feet.

Jesse’s gone. He’s gone. He can’t be gone, he has to be somewhere. But where? Jesse wouldn’t leave his friends behind. He wouldn’t go back to Talon. Why would he return to the one place that frightens him more than anything in the world?

He has to be somewhere here. Somewhere close. The note was hidden, not meant for Hanzo to find - surely it was an exercise of writing that Zenyatta had him do to deal with his anxieties. The omnic had done something similar for him, writing letters not meant for others to read but to help put words to his disorganized thoughts and feelings.

Zenyatta. That’s where the gunslinger is, he has to be. He didn’t reply to Hana for breakfast; how foolish was Hanzo for thinking Jesse would just turn up there. The cowboy is hurting, the garden is the most logical place for him to go.

Hanzo doesn’t bother pulling himself together, the panic preventing any sort of calm. He’s out the door, down a floor, and scratching mercilessly at the bottom of Reaper’s door within a minute. The trip is fraught with tangles and tumbles as his back legs move faster than his front, bunching up his bodies and twisting them over on the way. He has to see Jesse, he needs to know he’s okay. Yesterday’s worry is driving him mad, Jesse isn’t missing.

Hanzo arrives by sheer desperation, claws scratching at it’s metal surface. The both of him yell for them to open the door, yet he knows all that’s heard is sharp cries and loud, rapid chirps.

There’s a fumble and a groan before the door eases open, big enough for Sugarcube to squeeze through and make a dash for it. The garden is laid before him, through the screen door.

He’s in there. He has to be.

He yelps as he’s scooped up by his middle, flipping over and brandishing claws and teeth at whoever has made the mistake of grabbing him. But he meets Genji’s concerned face, who is so focused on the dragon in his hands that Sweetheart, the larger of the two, is able to brute through the door and skitter across the room quickly.

“Hanzo, what-” His brother’s words are cut off by a loud screech, a frustrated, distressed  sound as Sweetheart scratches at the door to the garden

Sugarcube fusses in Genji’s hold, digging his claws into the oversized sweatshirt he wears, snapping at air even when the hood cords get tangled in his teeth.

“Garden.” Sweetheart manages. “Jesse.” He insists, far too distraught to focus on his words.

The door opens, the path blocked by Zenyatta, whose voice is ringing softly. “Genji, is everything alright?”

Jesse has to tend to his box in the garden, with the budding sunflowers and marigolds that are starting to burst over it’s ledge. He must be.

Sweetheart doesn’t wait for him to move, can’t waste the time when Jesse should be there, will be there. He climbs the omnic, even gets assistance as Zenyatta moves to carry him over his shoulder. Front legs straight on his perch, he cranes his neck out to see his mate.

But he finds the garden empty.

Hanzo watches the garden, as if he could somehow will the gunslinger into existence. But the longer he glares at the lush, living fauna the more he resigns to the weight in his chest. Jesse’s not here. Genji gently rocks Sugarcube in his hold, perturbed by the abrupt and sudden silence from both serpents.

The both of him inhale sharply, exhaling long before going limp. Despair crushes him, leaving him  pliant with soft, sad chitters. Sugarcube manages to drag himself into his brother’s sweater, wheezing weak wisps of smoke when Genji begins to pet the golden fur along his spine and asks him, “What’s happened to Jesse?” which only makes him whimper.

Sweetheart feels misery acutely as a sharp stabbing pain through his body. It exhausts him, he can’t even bring himself to keep his tail off the ground as Zenyatta carries him into the room. Wetness gathers at his eyes, thick and more viscous than human tears, falling to the ground and on the omnic’s shoulder in soft, wet plops. He aches, hisses in as much warning as he can when he’s touched.

Zenyatta instead reaches over to pet at Sugarcube, his orbs drifting from the table and chiming gently as he does. Both dragons feel the brief sense of calm that roll over them, even though the anguish and distress is greater than one could ever soothe. “Hanzo?”

“Jesse is gone.” - “Jesse is missing.” They say together.

Genji holds Sugarcube tighter who snuffles into the embrace. “I’m sure he’s here somewhere-”

“He left his serape,” - “His hat,” - “His comm,” - “And a note.” They list, one after the other. But both voices, strained and weary with sadness repeat, “He left me a note.”

“A note?”

Both dragons tense. “He cannot stay.” - “He would take me with him.” -

“Won’t ask me to forget him.” - “I cannot forget him.”

Genji looks concerned, pets at Sugarcube and presses a thumb at the base of one of his horns, doing his best to comfort the dragons. “Hanzo… he left a note.” His voice is remorseful, as though this hurts him as well. “What if he simply left?”

“He would not!” Two voices cry out, bodies twist, rising in anger. “He would not just leave. He would not do that.” He insists, looking Genji in the eyes. “He would not hurt me.” The words are quiet, vulnerable, and leave no room for argument. Hanzo slowly sinks back down where his bodies rest. “He wouldn’t.” If nothing else is certain about the gunslinger, his devotion to being at Hanzo’s side is.

The cyborg scowls, gathering up Sugarcube. “Master, please watch him for a moment.” And once the dragon has been traded over to the omnic, he motions and moves to the back of the room.

Lurking in the shadows, Hanzo had been so unfocused that he missed the obvious: Reaper. It was his room, of course he would be in here, perched on the large bed like a king. Perhaps on another day Hanzo will be concerned that the man was seeing him, the both of him, crumple in such a small, pitiful display, but today that worry was incomparable to the overwhelming loss he feels.

He can’t find the energy to listen in as his brother and Jesse’s former commander speak to each other. The dragons cannot bear to focus. All that runs through Hanzo’s mind is an overbearing thought of ‘Jesse - Jesse’ that the rest of the world seems to pass in a haze.

Zenyatta hums, begins to pace in a gentle flow of movement that rocks him. Hanzo feels babied, sickeningly coddled, and he should bring himself together and stand on his own two feet, but he can’t. The monk’s hold can only do so much for him.

Genji curses, bright and colorful in their mother tongue, tossing his comm across the room in a swift, cracking motion. He stalks back over to Zenyatta and the dragons, scooping Sugarcube back into his arms and scratching his fingers through Hanzo’s golden mane- whether it’s to comfort himself or his brother, Hanzo will never figure out.

He isn’t sure what’s going on, on edge from Jesse’s absence, on edge from his brother’s frustration. His mind races too fast, with so many possibilities on what to do next but indecisive of which he should choose. And for all he knows, the only thing certain is he’s running out of time.

It’s answered for him quickly- as everyone’s comms go off at once, as mass message. Genji tightens his hold on Sugarcube, burying his chin into the fluff at Hanzo’s neck and huffs. “I’m sorry, brother.” He mutters.

Zenyatta reaches for one of the comms in the room, all three resting on a little table and opens it.

Sweetheart can see the message, and the title alone makes him flinch with more fat tears threatening to appear.

>> _‘URGENT: Emergency Meeting - All Must Attend - Subject: Defective Agent’_

It doesn’t take an expert to know the ‘defective agent’ is Jesse, his cowboy, his sunshine.

-

They’re late to the meeting, it takes longer than expected for Zenyatta and Genji to help Hanzo pull himself together. He’s frayed at the edges, just barely hidden scales creating welts across his face mimicking a skin condition- unnoticeable unless one were to look too close. It would have to do, it’s as much as he can focus on and with his stomach is in knots over if he’ll see the gunslinger again- about what could be happening to him at this very moment.

Morrison shoots them a very pointed look as they enter, his desire for punctuality is more fierce on Hanzo, or maybe that’s because he thinks he was right about Jesse. No one can surprise a veteran.

“No,” He barks the second Hanzo opens his mouth, harsh and rude- intentionally so.

The shortness grates on Hanzo’s nerves, makes him itch to fight.

It’ll be the same argument they were in the day prior.Hanzo will volley for Jesse’s innocence, Morrison will continue to insist that he knows more about McCree than Hanzo would to make that call. Two fighters going back and forth about a man who isn’t there to defend himself.

The ex-commander stands tall, but there’s a weight to his shoulders, pulling him down. Despite how proud he looks, age has worn him down in comparison to the bright figurehead in his posters and it begs the question of how much authority he held back then.

The room is silent and hangs with every small movement made.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling roughly as though this whole thing is cumbersome.

It sets Hanzo on edge because a rescue mission should not be an inconvenience, no matter who it is that they’ll be retrieving.

“Agent McCree’s status has been changed to ‘Kill On Sight’.”

There’s an uproar in the room - people demanding for an explanation, begging for it not to be so, and others grumbling about how they regret being right about him - but it all drowns in comparison to the ringing in Hanzo’s ears. Kill On Sight. They intend for Jesse to die. No more chances for the cowboy, not even if he explicitly deserves them.

Morrison raises a hand, squares his shoulders and the room falls quiet, as quiet as it can with the shuffling of bodies and muted whispers between the closer agents. “It is not a decision I make lightly-”

“Of course not,”

Bodies twist and heads swivel to look to the back of the room where they find Reaper lounging idly in a chair, examining his clawed gauntlets as one would nails when bored. The room holds its breath- it’s not often the wraith speaks openly, even less so when Morrison is around.

“It’s just one you make against anyone who’s a hassle for you.” Reaper glances up, his mask tilting. “Speaking from personal experience, mind you Jacky.”

Morrison narrows his eyes, in combination of squinting without his visor and glaring at the other ex-commander. “He’s not a hassle, Reyes- it’s a repeated offense. How many more agents do we have to lose before you realize he isn’t going to change?””

Hanzo purses his lips, if he speaks it will just go around in circles again. He knows the gunslinger defected before Overwatch was disbanded, though Jesse has never opened up as to how he joined Talon and Hanzo hadn’t wanted to know explicitly why. Whether it was by choice or by force, all that mattered was that Jesse’s remorse was genuine- a feeling Hanzo knows all too well.

“Before.” Reaper says with a snarl. “We didn’t know what we do now. Talon wasn’t on the radar, anything that wasn’t visible to us didn’t exist or didn’t matter- that’s how everything felt to us, back then.” He stands, approaches Morrison and cranes his neck forward. “Now we know what they’re capable of.” He begins to tick off a list on his fingers. “Extortion, mental- physical manipulation, torture, threatening of loved ones-”

“We didn’t know that then, no.” Morrison agrees; at the very least he sees some reason. “But we know McCree.”

“You don’t know shit about the kid, Jack.”

Morrison glares heavily. “He’s not a kid- no matter how much you think otherwise, he’s not that lowlife punk you dragged back!” He shouts, pausing to collect himself with a deep breath. “I know you trained him,” Hanzo briefly wonders what Ms. Amari would have to say, if she were not currently away with her own mission. “I know what he’s capable of, I know that he was trained for this- but the fact of the matter is he went willingly.”

There’s compliments hidden beneath the surface of the accusation- Jesse is strong, but perhaps that’s what makes him more dangerous in the hands of Talon. He survives, does what he needs to so that he can live another day.

“He made his own decision. And he’s too dangerous for us to let him continue-”

_Ahem._

All eyes turn to Angela, who stands and slips her body between the two titans of commanding power. “If I may,” She looks uncertain, but stands straight, determined- and regardless of if she may, she will continue. “There is something you will want to consider before putting your so-called justified order into effect.”

Morrison furrows his brows when he addresses her, seeming to sag under the weight of her gaze, fury of his argument all but fizzled out. “I’m not changing my mind about him, Angela. Not this time.” He looks worn out and for a moment Hanzo almost believes that he really does regret having to make this choice, despite it being the wrong one.

Hope is waning - with not a thought placed towards Jesse’s rescue, and a looming order of his death- and Hanzo can feel the gunslinger slipping through his grasp. Just like yesterday, he feels the cowboy’s fingertips slide along his palm as he leaves, a final goodbye before he’s gone. But this time, the archer has no confidence that he’ll be seeing Jesse again soon.

Angela leers, reaching out and grabbing the ex-commander’s shoulder. She flicks her gaze between Reaper with a pointed look. “There’s something you may want to review.” She looks over her shoulder to Reaper. “And you as well,” Her eyes find Hanzo and she nods. Him too.

Morrison calls the meeting, order put on hold until he sees whatever Angela has got for him- even if he doesn’t seem convinced.

They wait until everyone else files out before Angela pulls out a tablet and connects it to the screen at the back of the room. Reaper and Morrison sit close to the front on opposite sides, and Hanzo stands at the end with his fingers curling around the back of a chair. He can’t bear to sit down, nervous energy building the longer they go without a plan to find his mate. It feels as if they’re wasting his time.

The projector flickers on, clear and bright. It’s her personal tablet, if the background photo is anything to go by- her surrounded by small, grinning cherub faced children. She’s dirt smeared but smiling happily, receiving a kiss from the kid she holds. Tents and tarps, green and smeared in dust line the background. An omnic ruined landscape, a doctor treating the world.

Personal means that the information she’s about to show them is not within Athena’s system- at least at this point in time. That is what peaks Hanzo’s curiosity- no one knows what she’s about to show and if anything- it sets him only more on edge.

Angela pulls up a file, a video, the first frame is easy to see- a younger Jesse is on his knees, surrounded by men with guns. He looks worse for wear, bruised and bleeding. “He begged me not to show anyone,” She explains, glancing back at Morrison without turning her head. “But you need to see this. You need to understand what happened to him.”

She presses play and then steps over to the side, turning away from the screen and her tablet. Whatever they’re about to witness, she doesn’t want to see it again.

Jesse’s screaming rips through the room instantly, his throat already hoarse and worn. The camera angle shifts, like a person circling around him, and it becomes clear to see what they’re doing. His arm is twisted at an unnatural angle, a knife jammed into his shoulder blade- Hanzo knows that knife. The Sandman was fond of it.

True enough, the Sandman’s croon comes through the speakers and chills run down Hanzo’s spine. _“I’ll ask again, Mister McCree. Will you accept our formal invitation into Talon?”_

Like the cowboy Hanzo knows now, the cowboy of then spits at the Sandman’s feet and sneers. Reaper lets out a soft ‘attaboy’ at the fight he’s giving.

 _“I ain’t workin’ for no-”_ He screams again, the movement is swift and sudden and it takes the occupants of the room to realize what transpired. In the blink of an eye, Jesse’s leg was extended and his knee shattered. The young cowboy’s face goes red, and his gritted teeth do nothing to muffle the sounds of pain he lets loose.

His eyes are defiant, fiery and dangerous. Talon is toying with a man who could take them all out, who’s gaze promises agony as soon as he is free. He says nothing, doesn’t agree to join them. Jesse is strong, and unfortunately his captors know this.

 _“We’re asking nicely.”_ The Sandman coos, leaning down to take Jesse’s chin in hand. There’s something sickeningly affectionate in that touch, the man was fond of those he caused pain. Hanzo remembers the burn of the Sandman’s palm under his chin as he tried to break the dragon, so disgustingly fascinated by his scales.

 _“I could take your other knee, or your mind, or- perhaps…”_ The laugh the Sandman gives stills the room, it’s bad news, whether you knew the leader of Talon or not. The boss leaves Jesse, walks toward the camera which catches the nasty, devilish smile on his face. He turns to face his captive. _“What about those friends of yours from Overwatch? We keep tabs on them, you know? Tracer has quite the sightseeing itinerary created, and - oh you will be delighted to hear this - Angela’s research clinic is doing quite well.”_

Hanzo glances to Angela, finds her hunched over, arms firmly crossed with her knuckles white in their hold.

Jesse stares wide eyed, and Hanzo can see him breaking piece by piece- the one weak spot, his friends, his makeshift family of people who think he’s good. He needs them alive, even if they hate him. In Jesse’s eyes, Hanzo can see that the cowboy believes he’ll make it out of there soon, that agreeing is just a temporary situation. The gunslinger doesn’t know that no one will be coming for him for years.

The Sandman approaches. Jesse once more who leans back, suddenly afraid of the leader. _“Don’t-”_ His voice breaks as a black leather shoe prods at his destroyed knee, but he has to agree, he has to protect who he can. _“Don’t touch ‘em, please.”_

Unsatisfied with that answer, or perhaps just because he’s a cruel man, the Sandman uses his foot to press against Jesse’s chest, his toe just under the cowboy’s chin.

_“I’ll join.”_

A song filters through, hummed but no less distinguishable from when the Sandman played it over the speakers and sang it while he drew samples and pumped things into Hanzo’s body. “ _I knew you’d see things our way._ ” He glances over his shoulder at the camera, an ugly smile on his face before he pushes Jesse over.

Hanzo flinches as Jesse howls, the knife in his shoulder sinking in further, his knee jostled and his head hitting the floor behind him.

_“And we won’t touch them, I promise you that.”_

_“Because you will.”_

The video goes black but there’s some shuffling and some whimpers that are definitely from the cowboy. Hanzo feels a sick churning in his gut, Reaper’s head hangs low but Morrison’s eyes are glued to the black screen- something is running through his mind, but Hanzo can’t figure it out, he doesn’t know the man well enough.

Angela stays where she is, gaze fixed on the wall in front of her. “There’s another.” Is all she supplies before the screen comes to life again.

The camera is held at head height and for one second Hanzo believes it to be attached to some sort of headgear- right up until a hand made of metal joints pushes open the door. An omnic, that’s what it is, with recording software.

It approaches a lump on a bed in a dark room, gently peels back the covers to reveal Jesse’s face.

He’s pale and shaking, a sheen of sweat covering his face.

The omnic reaches out, tenderly tucks a lock of sweat-soaked hair behind an ear before it abruptly gives the cowboy’s cheek a quick series of less than affection slaps. _“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacey, McCree.”_ It coos.

The cowboy grunts, his face twisting in pain as he turns it from the offender’s hand. The omnic sighs and grips his chin hard forcing Jesse to face what Hanzo is presuming is it’s own face- the recording device.

His eyes are glazed over, unseeing - “Is he drugged?” Morrison asks, leaning forward and staring intently still. Reaper answers with a grunted ‘no’ and before he can speak, the words croak from the back of Hanzo’s throat.

“He’s giving up.”

It’s a face he’s only seen one other time, in the storage room when they were running. Jesse thought himself abandoned, staring down the barrels of too many guns and while he was going down with a fight, Hanzo had seen it in his eyes - resignation to a cruel fate. Accepting of death.

This time, Hanzo is not there to surprise him, to bring that flicker of _fight_ back into his gaze.

Jesse doesn’t respond to being grabbed by the omnic and the automaton doesn’t take that too kindly, ripping the covers down with a harsh clicking sound from it’s headpiece. It doesn’t take an expert to know the bandages on the gunslinger’s arm shouldn’t be a sickly yellow and the skin peeking from beneath it shouldn’t be dark purple - black almost.

With a start, Hanzo realizes that it’s flesh, decayed as it is. It’s Jesse’s arm, not the prosthetic which freed him. He’s losing his arm.

The omnic yanks him out of the bed, the cowboy falls to the ground, weak and frail with fever. His body is failing, he’s letting go bit by bit - how long was he fighting for? _“You’ve got a job, McCree.”_ It waits for Jesse to nod slowly, tapping impatient fingers against it’s arm. _“What’s the rule?”_

 _“If-”_ Jesse draws in a shaky breath, using every last ounce of will within himself to keep going. The longer he lives, the longer he can make sure his former comrades live. _“If’n I don’t come back with a body, I keep losin’ mine.”_ His voice breaks, trembles because he’s already losing.

Hanzo shuts his eyes, unable to witness such a broken display, regardless of the knowledge that somehow, someway, Jesse survives this tormented state.

There’s a thud and an irritated sigh from the omnic.

The archer glances back at the screen, sees the omnic toeing at Jesse’s form. The cowboy’s breath comes fast, panicked, _in shock_ . _“Such a soft thing,”_ It comments dryly. _“I will never understand why it wants you.”_

Jesse’s eyes open just barely, a glare of red eyes looking up before rolling back into his head.

The omnic kneels, hefts the gunslinger’s form over his shoulder, _“We best keep you alive, or else there will be hell to pay.”_

The video pitters out and Angela takes in a deep breath, collecting herself before looking at the men in the room. Her eyes are glossy and red, but her expression is no less bold, a look that Hanzo feels in his gut but refuses to show as much.

He refuses to dwell on Jesse’s past pains, even if the cowboy were present, there is nothing Hanzo can do to change the circumstances of that event. He focuses ahead of him, his eyes flicking over to Morrison who leans on his knees, staring at the blank screen, brows knit together.

Hanzo expects action, he expects for the ex-commander to stand up proudly and declare they must reclaim the cowboy.

Instead he rises, slow, weary, and mashes a gloved palm on one of his eyes, rubbing the strain from them. “I…”

-was wrong? -will form a plan? Hanzo hangs on the word.

“... need to think.” Without much else, he slinks out of the room.

Despite the tail between his legs, the old soldier doesn’t rectify the call- or make one at all, even though it’s clearer now that Jesse didn’t join of his own free will. That he stayed under the thought that the people he loved and knew would be safer if he did, and under the agony of losing his own body.

They’re losing time. There’s no inkling to Jesse’s fate and Hanzo looks back over at the blank screen as though it has the answers.

The idea ignites like a candlewick, a small light in the back of his skull. Morrison needs to see Jesse as Hanzo sees him, as Hanzo had learned to see him when he began gathering the intel to retrieve the renegade cowboy.

He slips out quickly, there’s a phone call he has to make.

-

Hanzo perches in the rafters, eyes narrowed in suspicion at Morrison.

The entirety of the base is together again, going over new drills and tactics now that they are down one gunslinger. Morrison hasn’t withdrawn his pending order, and he’s been trying to get his attention the entire day, likely to tell Hanzo not to run off and do something stupid on his own - which is exactly what he itches to do.

There was no lie behind his words when he promised Jesse that he’d tear the world apart to get to him.

But destruction begets destruction, this he knows, and he’s chosen for a more subtle route of ripping the world apart.

Genji sits beside him, one leg dangling off their beam, the other bent so that he can rest his head on it. He’s been a silent companion in the day and a half since Jesse left, support when Hanzo needs it and a distraction when the archer falls too far into his own thoughts.

The rest of the team is buzzing below - he can see Reaper and Zenyatta tucked away and talking, occasionally glancing up at the two dragon brothers, and Hana and Lúcio are conspiring, throwing loud laughs when someone else wanders too near. He wonders what they’re talking about and if he would feel more himself, more at ease, if he approached them without a thought, tease them because it’s a riot when they can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Jesse always knew- knows when he’s joking.

His heart seizes briefly as he realizes that he’s already thinking about Jesse as though he were a part of the past instead of the present.

A hand on his shoulder draws his attention to his brother. Genji’s faceplate is lowered but not removed, showing his eyes as he looks at Hanzo in concern. The archer nods, a silent thank you.

The buzz of the conversations below quiets suddenly, followed with a light and smokey “Excuse me,” Everyone turn swiftly, hands flying to their weapons and readying them- only to lower them from the civilian before them. The woman takes them all in and a wry smile twists at the corners of her lips, “I guess I’m in the right place.”

Morrison steps forward, slinging his gun over his shoulder. “Who are you?”

Hanzo knows- her posture, her gait is a dead giveaway even if he didn’t know her name. She fancies the color red, by her attire; a long coat that sweeps at her calves, vibrant with gold trim to match the scarf wrapped seamlessly around her neck. Hanzo chuckles to himself- a wide-brimmed hat rests against her neck hanging on a string, not one be-fit of a cowboy, but something much sleeker. Her thick, dark hair is peppered with greys, similar enough, but her nose is identical to Jesse’s, wrinkling a little when she smiles and holds her hand out. “Nolli.”

Ever courteous, even in the face of potential danger, the ex-commander returns the handshake, stands a little straighter when Nolli embraces it just as firm as he does. “Morrison- Jack.” He reciprocates before his words turn sharp. “How did you get in here?”

Nolli beams innocently enough, smooths down the sides of her coat and folds her hands in front of her. “The front door of course, it’s only polite.”

Hanzo covers his mouth to prevent himself from laughing at her coyness, he can certainly see where Jesse gets it from. Genji shoots him a look, tense over the stranger just like everyone else - surely he’s wondering why Hanzo is so relaxed.

The old soldier isn’t having any of it, “I’m sure you noticed that you can’t just walk in here,”

“But I did.”

“So how did you get into the base?” He lowers his gun, holds it firmly in front of his body, a threat.

She chuckles, deep and smooth. “I walked in,” Morrison goes to stop her but she continues on, regardless of the proximity of his weapon. “And used a handy code little I was given.”

Winston seems to take over then, scuttling over to a nearby terminal and pulling up the base’s access logs. He adjusts his glasses and then frowns. “A guest code.” Everyone begins looking at each other, trying to figure out who brought this woman here.

Genji clues in fast, “Brother,” He hisses and shoves at Hanzo’s leg. “She could get hurt.”

His concern for Nolli is not misplaced, one wrong move and someone could believe she’s the enemy, but at the same time, it’s apparent she knows how to tread in dangerous waters. She’s played a peaceful position- her hands have been visible at all times, her movements slow, and despite her teasing, she’s answered all questions.

“She can take care of herself,” He says, watching as Morrison eyes her carefully, assessing.

“Who is she- Hanzo!” Genji shouts.

He slips off the rafter, landing a bit away from the group with a soft thud before he stands straight and stares at Nolli.

The other agents gather closer, whispering about what he intends to do. He knows what he is to them, cold and distant, and he knows that a few of them will never see past Genji’s armor plating. They fear what he has to say to this stranger.

Hands shoot out to hold Nolli back as she approaches him swiftly, but she shrugs them off to get to him, standing toe to toe, looking up at him. Her heels could cut a fine line into dust, he realizes. Gentle hands come to cup his jaw, thumbs swiping across his cheekbones.

“How was your flight?” He asks with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Quick. I am surprised.”

“Good to see my name still holds some weight.”

“And money, don’t think I didn’t catch the price on those tickets.” Her smile fades to sadness and all Hanzo can think about is how Jesse makes that same face; it’s the face waiting for the dragon to come for him, to save him.

He crumples, folds into her and wraps around her. She’s wearing cologne, something thick and spiced. He doesn’t cry, can’t let himself with all eyes on them, but he holds her tight, twists his hands in her coat as though he has no anchor to hold him to the earth.

Nolli embraces him, plays with the fine hairs on the back of his neck and rubs at his back. “ _Mijito._ ” She pries him upright and takes his face in her hands. She waits until he looks at her, face still twisted into a scowl. “I know you will find him. I know you won’t let them turn him into a weapon.” she whispers.

Hanzo inhales, nodding swiftly, setting his face back into the mask he knows well before his eyes settle behind her. She smiles, a simple motherly smile.

All too soon, she steels herself and draws straight, turning from Hanzo and facing down Morrison who no longer holds his gun as a threat. “Who is in charge?”

Winston raises his hand uncertainly from his position at the terminal, regretting the choice when Nolli strides toward him.

“Why haven’t you gone after my son? It’s in my understanding that he’s been gone for over twenty-four hours- aren’t those the most crucial?”

People shift around her, away from her-Jesse McCree’s mother who demands answers with the tone of a woman who has raised hellions and shaped them up right.

“We were just about to.” Morrison answers, approaching her. “I’ve been trying to form a team, but the designated leader,” Hanzo can only assume that his gaze is directed at him, the visor obscuring his eyes. “Has been avoiding me all day.”

He isn’t wrong, but Hanzo refuses to be humble here, not with Jesse’s life on the line and when his stern pride is one of the few things he still has the dignity of keeping.

Morrison sighs, rolls his neck with a crack. “Well, what are you standing around for? Hop to it Shimada. You’re the one who’s defended him the most, go and get him.” He lifts his hand as if to shoo the archer. “Take who you need.” Orders given, he quiets his voice to speak between Winston and Nolli.

Hanzo wants to talk to her, assure her that he will get Jesse back, but she’s being escorted away before he can.

He will just have to make good on his promise instead.

-

He is entirely prepared to leave on his own, team be damned. There is nothing that will stop him from finding Jesse, except for his brother’s hand firm on his shoulder, halting his brisk walk to his room.

“I’m coming with you.” His brother says curtly and leaves no room for argument as he strides ahead and disappears into Reaper’s room.

Hanzo quickly changes into something nondescript for his journey and shoves his bow and arrows into a sleek black case that hangs from his shoulder with a long strap. A small bag is stuffed roughly with a change of clothes, a clip of bills, and a burner phone. If he were more patient, he would properly pack, folding his clothes and making sure he had a great sum on an untraceable chip, but he’s wasting enough time as it is.

He’s about to leave his room, when he passes the serape still draped over the back of a chair.

It pulls him in, and his fingers bury and twist into the worn fabric, his callouses catching on the frayed patches in the weave. Vividly he can remember roaming his fingers along the golden pattern while he walked close behind the cowboy, tangling his small serpentine bodies in it when he no longer desired to walk.

Slowly he pulls it off the chair, folding it as tightly as he can before replacing some of the clothes in his pack with it. No one will question if he’s wearing a few extra layers- he always ran cold-blooded.

He doesn’t get to knock at Reaper’s door, Genji is waiting for him, tapping away at his comm as he leans against the wall. He wears a sweater that is entirely too large over his mechanical exterior and instead of a nondescript case for his weapon, a thin guitar case is resting against his back.

“You do not have to join me.” Hanzo offers.

His brother tilts his head - something of a smile. “Of course, Hanzo. He is my friend, and you are my brother.” He rolls a shoulder, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother. “I know what it is like to lose a mate.” There is a story there, one that Hanzo one day hopes to hear, but it is for another time.

“I hope you were not planning on leaving without us.”

The melodic voice belongs to Zenyatta. The omnic walks with Reaper, arms linked as has become the norm to see them.

Reaper separates only to open the door to his quarters and disappear inside. He leaves the door open and Genji laughs, ducking inside.

Again, it appears as though the decision for his team is being made for him.

The wraith rifles through a drawer before pulling out a set of comms. They look just like the Overwatch ones, but instead of a standard blue, they are sleek black and the logo is a red and white ship, a sword overtop- it matches the large symbol on the back of one of Genji’s hoodies. He hands them to everyone in the room and then silently demonstrates taking the earpiece out of the compartment in the back.

“Blackwatch,” He says, pulling out a few more gadgets. He manhandles Genji, spins the cyborg so he can get at his bag, depositing his items in there. His brother seems to have become the designated pack-mule. “Harder to get past the encryption, and the base can’t listen in the whole time.”

He pauses, turns and grabs an extra comm, tossing it to Hanzo.

“For both of you,” The privacy and the consideration of his other form is welcomed, but Hanzo is still surprised that Reaper has said nothing to him about the dragons - though looking at how close he is with Genji, he is not surprised..

Zenyatta quickly leaves a message in Athena’s system, should anyone come asking for them, and just as they are about to depart, a sharp knock goes throughout the room.

Another delay and Hanzo’s gut twists. He wants to find Jesse, he needs to bring him back home, wants to know he’s safe.

“You were thinking of leaving without us?” Hana’s disbelief is undertoned with haughtiness, as though she knew she would be coming along no matter what.

Lúcio waves at Hanzo, “We came to help.”

The sinking feeling turns into swelling - if only Jesse could see them now, how many people want him home. How many people love him. Angela’s insistence upon proving Morrison wrong, Hana and Lúcio ready to throw themselves into danger for him. His old friend, old mentor, and his teacher all prepared to go in without a clue to save him.

Jesse is loved, but unable to see any of it from where he is.

“Now where do we start?” Hana asks.

Reaper sighs and fishes out more comms - a quick glance tells Hanzo that he has enough for eight people roughly. Where he got them or why he was hoarding them, Hanzo will never know. “I have a list of bases, we start at one and comb through them until we find him.”

Hanzo bristles. “That will take too long,” He snaps. “Surely there is a better method- which ones are empty, which ones are capable of being a prison. What about hidden areas such as the one I was kept in?”

The blatant truth, is that they simply don’t have enough information. “And... what of new locations?” Genji asks in tandem, tilting his chin downwards. Everyone looks at each other before they begin to set their items down. There’s no good place to start, Talon’s secrets are well guarded.

The wraith sighs, pulls out what looks to be a personal phone and taps away quickly. The reply is instantaneous and he growls at whatever is on his screen. “Give me an hour. I’ll be back with intel.”

-

Nolli thanks Winston as he hands her a warm coffee mug. A sip tells her it’s bitter, but she refrains from making a scene. Well, even more of a scene. Not like she could help it, the old soldier had made it too easy to tease and she was biding time until she found Hanzo.

That rascal, hiding and watching her put the agents of Overwatch on edge. She smiles into her mug - a man after her own heart, that one. Speaking of, her heart breaks to recall how he looked, worn down and lost, and how he held her too tight in his grief. His wounds were too visible and unfortunately there was no time for him to recover before finding her son.

 “So,” Nolli jumps, startled out of her thoughts. She was currently sharing a space with a talking gorilla. Strange, but not the strangest thing she’s ever seen. Winston clears his throat and pretends to have not noticed her surprise. “Where are you from?”

“Montana.”

“You got here pretty fast, assuming Mr. Shimada called you after…” He trails off, they both know what he implies.

She smiles, eases the awkwardness. “The wonders of money, the boy doesn’t appear to be short of it.”

Winston grins. “Certainly not, he’s been an asset in gathering resources and funding. It would be a lot tougher if he didn’t lend a hand.” An oversharer. He seems to think of something and lumbers over to a screen.

From the angle, Nolli can’t see what he looks for, but there’s a visible crease between his brows. “Were you near the attacks? The omnic ones?”

Pursing her lips, she nods. “My city was the first one hit,” She can still smell the smoke from her neighbor’s house going up in flames.

“I’m sure you’ve heard here have been many attacks like it all over the world then- few casualties, thankfully, but too much destruction, and there’s been a lot of missing people after each attack.” He rambles off, handing her a tablet pad and letting her scroll through it.

She sees faces, so many of them, labeled missing and short descriptions of them. All of them appear to have some sort of status due to a talent. “Are they collecting people who go above and beyond?” There’s a vet with a purple heart on the list, an olympic gold medal sprinter, and a businesswoman with a note of - Nolli’s eyebrows raise in surprise - eight fluent languages and three other semi-fluent.

Winston shakes his head. “We thought that too, but there’s something else not adding up. All deceased are whole, but there are…. Body parts. Always with the omnics, but none of the tests are genetic matches to those missing. We don’t know where the pieces are coming from, it’s almost like the-”

Nolli tightens up, “They’re bringing the pieces in with them.”

“Precisely, and the same thing happened with the omnics that attacked our base-”

“Here!?” She hisses. “Who’s missing?” She hadn’t considered it, hadn’t connected the dots between her son with hellfire in his eyes, a wicked shot, and the missing talented folks. “Jesse,” Her fingers tighten around her mug and on the tablet. “They took m-” Her voice cracks. “My boy?”

Winston looks down, ashamed and sorry all at once. “We don’t know for sure-”

“Is that why they were in my city? They were coming for him there?” She has to get help- Hanzo will not be enough.

“Ms. Nolli, where are you going?” Winston calls out to her as she leaves, tugging her hat on, holding her purse close to her side.

She glances over her shoulder, regrets not being able to stay for Jesse’s return. “Family business.”

And as she exits, she barely hears the scientist say “I... thought McCree was family business?”

-

It would be a dive joint - and a crowded one at that. There’s no better place to meet a mercenary than a crowded restaurant, and one with dim lighting so while you’re visible, your business can’t be seen.

Reaper looks around again. Or maybe his contact just likes the place genuinely, they’re strange enough, it wouldn’t surprise him too much.

He takes a seat at a booth, waits until a server comes by and leaves before speaking aloud. “I know you’re there,” Something brushes up his calf, wiggling like toes. “Sombra.”

In a shimmer, she appears on the opposite side of the table, leaning into her hands with a pout. “You’re no fun. Were you always this much of a buzzkill, Gabriel?” She pulls an image of his former self into thin air and laughs. “Of course you were,” She sends the image forward where it breaks in front of his eyes.

The wraith remains astute, his featureless disguise hiding the curl of his gnarled lips. He would appreciate it if people would let Gabriel Reyes rest in peace.

She ignores the threat in his silence. “You know it’s risky for you to contact me, right? Talon wants your head on a platter- this better not be some sort of booty call or I’m getting myself a promotion.”

“I need a favor.”

Sombra groans loudly and slides down in her seat until only her head is visible - Reaper can feel her strange footwear prodding at his side. "It's always a favor!" She gripes and begins imitating him, "Sombra, remove the ingrate's name from the botched mission on the train. Sombra, make this omnic disappear, hide these cyborg schematics. Sombra, _the door_."

She laughs suddenly, reveling in a playful, but false irritation. She sits up and leans in close. “Do you know how many IOU’s,” She brings up three screens, each with a bolded letter on it. They change as she taps them, “U-O-me?” The last is a winking graphic of her face.

“That you never call on.”

“That I’m saving!” She sounds indignant.

He leans forward, tilts his head in a grin - a behavior learned from Zenyatta and Genji that he hadn’t noticed develop over time. “Then consider this three more to your collection.”

Her eyes go wide. “Woah. Three, what exactly do you need from me?” She’s wary, he doesn’t blame her.

“Your employer has managed to get his hands on McCree again- I need to know where they put him.”

Sombra snorts. “He’s worth three? This little tidbit of information? Alright then, I can find him for you- and y’know, I’ll even give you a discount. Make it two.”

“Two IOU’s it is then.” He agrees.

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll give you everything you need.”

“Ten?” She looks up, squinting at him. “You’re getting rusty, Sombra.”

She wrinkles her nose at him, tapping away into a holo-keypad before vanishing.

“Five.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aki's my huckleberry for editing ANOTHER monster of a chapter and being such a champ about getting this done.
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	14. Marigold Sunsets

Jesse is exhausted. His sleep was restless and he wasn’t about to catch a quick nap while sitting face to metal plate with an omnic in a transport vehicle. It didn’t help that he was fighting against himself, everything in his body and subconscious telling him to _run, fight, don’t let them get them touch you._

_They will break you._

The only thing keeping him there, stopping him from brawling his way back to Overwatch, was the thought of Hanzo’s head in the scope of Widowmaker’s rifle.

They skip the formalities as they send him off to a base - one he doesn’t recognize, a new one. It dampens any small hope he has of being found- if Overwatch comes looking for him, if they don’t decide that he’s defected. Again. If they can convince Hanzo of that.

He was selfish, he knows, to ask the archer to never forget him. But he knew how this was going to go and he didn’t want the dragon to remember him as the assassin that goes for the throats of his former teammates. He wants someone to remember his charms, his lazy mornings- that he can be as quick to love as his draw.

They bring him down the hall of this base’s pen, a single room rather than a complex of cells. The walk of shame leads him to a silver room, all sleek chrome and medical cleanliness, with a metal chair bolted down in the center. He staunchly ignores the tray of instruments and the deep sinks off to the side.

The cowboy is sat in the chair, and though they try to force him roughly, he’s so tired and unwilling to aggravate their threat that he goes willingly. They clasp him in too tight with metal restraints at his wrists and ankles and then leave him be.

In these situations, when he’d accompany Boss, they’d wait for an hour or two before sinking their teeth in, but this feels like five, maybe six. At some point the faucet begins to leak, a steady drip, drip, drip that echoes and drives him mad.

He doesn’t hear it at first, not above the sound of the dripping faucet or his own nerves- a new rush of blood, a new spike of adrenaline urges him to fight. A feeling he wrestles down because it’s not just his life on the line.

Malaise settles over him with the slow, steady tapping of heels just outside the door. The whistling, loud, sharp, and languid clear as day. The latch clicks, and only then does the tune come into focus.

Jesse’s mouth twists into a wry half-smile; the Sandman has come for him.

The door swings open, and lo and behold, Boss steps through. His whistling melts into a deep humming as he strides in, ignoring his captive. He runs his fingers over the polished steel instruments on the table, goes to the sink and stops the leak with a quick, firm twist of a knob.

He moves behind Jesse, “Mr. Sandman,” He croons and suddenly leashes a strap of leather around the cowboy’s neck from behind. Boss pulls it tight, making Jesse gasp for air, he leans in over the cowboy’s shoulder, the scent of menthol cigarettes clinging to his skin. “Bring me a dream.”

The gunslinger leans back into the hold, trying to ease the pressure on his neck, eyes wide and panicked. Boss pulls tighter and as much as he tries not to, Jesse’s body jerks as he begins to run out of air. His fingers claw from their bonds at the metal of the chair. His lungs burn, his eyes water, and his heart fires rapidly, hammering away in his chest.

Just as the edges of his vision begin to go hazy and dark, the pressure releases and Boss resumes his song.

Jesse tilts his head back, settling back in the chair and trying to regain some focus. He loses track of the other man in the room until a pair of hands roughly grab his shoulders and give him a quick little shake, just enough to keep him off balance.

“Welcome home, McCree.”

The cowboy closes his eyes tightly- this isn’t home.

Boss comes to his front and grabs Jesse’s neck, his thumb pressed harshly into the soft underside of his jaw and forcing him to look up. “What, not even a ‘howdy’ for me?” He clicks his tongue. “I’ll have to give you some proper manners again,” He releases Jesse’s throat and slides his gloved hand lazily up the cowboy’s temple. “When I rewire you.”

The man runs his hand along Jesse’s new prosthetic arm, lip curling in disgust. His fingernails scrape along the metal and catch on the grooves between plates. Jesse inhales through his nose, expecting the worst from Boss- it wouldn’t be far from the man to mangle his limb, disconnect it, or jam something in the connection.

He pulls away, much to Jesse’s relief. “We’ll have to get you a new one of those. Blue simply isn’t your color.” Boss heads for the door, “I’m so glad to have you back, Mr. McCree.” He leans against the jamb and serves Jesse with a bone chilling smile. “Apologies for the short visit, after I gather all of the intel on that dragon of yours, I promise I’ll stay longer.”

“We had a deal.” Jesse croaks, voice rough and drawn. He aches, body thrumming with exhaustion, but the panic of Hanzo being in danger buzzes through his veins. “You said you wouldn’t go after him.”

Boss’ grin widens into something nastier. “That’s right, and I intend to keep my word.” No bastard should look as calm as he does, but it makes Jesse’s spine shake. “I won’t touch him, oh no, Mr. McCree, you will be doing that for us.” He chuckles.

“That is what we are rebuilding you for.”

Jesse snaps- every surge of regret he’s capable of having shattering his will to remain calm and cooperative. He regrets not making it harder for them to take him, not when it means nothing to Hanzo’s survival. He regrets not telling anyone, not thinking when he made a deal with an organization whose reputation is to twist and take. A weapon, he’s being turned into a weapon to hunt down his partner- he- they won’t take Hanzo alive this time.

Boss watches him with glee, a spark in his eye that he gets after a particularly exciting session of conditioning. “Do you know what we made our very own Widowmaker’s trigger?” He asks as though it were idle conversation.

The cowboy shakes his head.

“ _J’adore, Amélie._ ” He says wistfully, pretending at a earnest husband’s words. “It’s a pity he loved her so much, told her every day and never hid it.” Darkness casts the Boss’s grin into shadow, features ugly with the delight he takes in Jesse’s torment. “I wonder what sweet words your pet lizard says to you.”

A sickness boils in his stomach, makes his head spin worse than the lack of oxygen had, and he cries as he pulls at his restraints, desperate to chase after the cruel man leaving him alone in this room.

Useless. Stupid- It was all for nothing. In the end he’s losing everything.

The tears well too quick and he sobs, broken before Talon has even begun to tear him apart, and he tries harder to break free. The metal cuffs dig into his wrists, rubbing them raw and creating welts that well up with pinpricks of blood. The skin beneath becomes irritated against the unpolished insides, and even though he knows there is no escape he tries.

The gunslinger screams and weeps until his voice leaves him, his anger boiling over and burning him from the inside out- frustration and hopelessness overwhelming him until he slouches forward and remains. He hasn’t the will to pick himself back up, lets the tears that endlessly fall drip down onto his pants and stares at the pattern of the fabric.

In the end, exhaustion wins out- and an oppressing sleep that promises no alleviation, closes in on him. Of all the things in his fading conscious, he thinks that the one thing he’ll always regret is never giving Hanzo a proper goodbye. A goodnight kiss.

-

_A bright light wakes him, glaring from behind his eyelids until he relents._

_Instead of a white and chrome room, he finds himself in a small area with red dirt walls and a blue sky above. The sun bears heavily down upon him, makes him sweat within seconds beneath the layers of his clothes._

_It takes only a second to recognize what he’s sitting in._

_Six feet deep, he’s in a grave filled ankle deep with camellias. Their red petals mock him, whispering of easier times when his biggest worry was making sure to get the petals didn’t get crushed in his prosthetic._

_Sitting in his lap is a bouquet, and when he lifts it, the ends in which there should be buds, host a myriad rabbit skulls instead. They clatter together with the soft shift of the flowers christening them; he can tell which one is his by the worn down top where he’s worried it smooth._

_“Hey, Double Dead, you gonna stay there forever or are ya plannin’ on joinin’ the livin’?”_

_Jesse’s whips his head up and sees a small hand reaching down to him, a baggy, old hoodie rolled up to reveal a tattoo that he owns the match to. Deadlock’s brand of the skull and wings, with ‘Canary’ sitting in the banner below._

_“Jess,” The voice groans, the hand waving frantically in his face to grab his attention. “C’mon, man. We don’t got all the time in the world.”_

_He takes the hand without a second thought and uses the grip as leverage to climb his way out of the grave. He rolls onto the dirt, stares at the endless sky and wonders if this is real. Maybe he’s just waking up from being pistol whipped to hell by Winnie._

_The cowboy slowly sits up, and instantly recognizes this as the spot where his best friend was buried a long time ago- the dirt falls away under the toe of his shoe, softened by the runoff from Earl’s._

_The sheer drop into the gorge lays just before him, and at it’s edge is a small figure, an adolescent, not yet full grown but hitting the middle of their growth spurt with their arms and legs long and gangly. They’ve got their hood pulled up, shielding the view of their head from Jesse, but he can see small wisps of dirty blonde hair flying wildly in the wind._

_“You know they didn’t bury me, right Jess?” The figure hunches forward, peering over the ledge. “That ain’t no grave of mine, no matter what they told you. Don’t matter if you’re one of them or one of us, everyone goes to the gorge in the end.”_

_“Who-”_

_The kid turns, dramatic like in those westerns Jesse used to watch when he was young. The big reveal of a pivotal figure. “Wow, Jess, can’t even recognize your own best mate?” Blue eyes crinkle at the corners, accented by a vibrant red hole in the center of the kid’s forehead._

_“Les?” His voice shakes, and for a moment he’s young again with a smoking gun that shoots more bullets than it can hold._

_“Who else would pull your sorry hide out of a grave?”_

_Jesse crumples with a dull thud, voice hitching, wanting to scream. He bites the meat of his thumb to quell the twist in his stomach when he feels the bile rise in his throat.His eyes fall to the ground at Leslie’s feet, dusty old boots from ages past- too worn out from tearing across the dirt. “I’m sorry,” He says into his hands, muffled and panicked. “I’m sorry, Les. Oh god, I’m-” He chokes, everything in his body seizing._

_Leslie runs over, kneels in front of him and holds him up best he can with his skinny arms. “Calm down, Jess. C’mon man, cryin’ ain’t cool.” But the warble in his voice gives him away, eyes shining and on the verge of crying himself. “It was a long time ago- I forgave you man, somethin’ went wrong but- but it ain’t your fault. I was gonna get here one way or another.”_

_They stay there in the dirt, until Jesse stops trembling and the wind scratches against their skin,  reminding them of how the desert has hardened them both._

_Suddenly, Jesse wrests himself from Leslie’s grip and holds him at arm’s length, looking him over. Just the same, he looks every bit as young and hellbound as he did the day he died, right down to the scratch on his cheek from a bit of rough housing with Jesse. “How- why are-...” He tries to gather his thoughts. “Where are we?”_

_His friend laughs and taps at his temple._

_He lets Jesse stew over the silent answer before he’s standing, grabbing Jesse’s hands and dragging him up as well. He lets go and sprints off toward Earl’s gas station, throwing a grin over his shoulder as though he were winning a race that Jesse wasn’t aware he was apart of._

_Thick fingers slip between his own, calloused from archery- a grip he knows anywhere._

_His hold on the hand tightens and a warm body lines up beside his own, grounding him. Watching Leslie run off, turning around a corner and disappearing, fills him with a dread that is quickly quelled when they tug at him._

_Jesse faces his partner. Hanzo is speaking, staring off after Leslie fondly. But no sound leaves his lips._

_Everything falls mute around him, not even the arid winds that sing through the gorge- it’s eerie howls of death are silenced. Hanzo continues speaking until he realizes that Jesse isn’t responding. Looking up, the worry on the cowboy’s face is mirrored on the archer’s instantly._

_Warm hands cup Jesse’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes. “Hanzo, I can’t-” He chokes, the overwhelming feeling from before crashing over him. With a sob he throws himself at the dragon, curls around him, fists balling against his shirt. “Hanzo,”_

_He can feel the archer’s jaw moving against the side of his head, but still he hears nothing._

_“Please,” Jesse begs, though he’s not sure what he begs for- help, relief, answers?_

_Fingers thread through his hair, tangling in his locks and an arm tightens around his waist, pulling him closer to Hanzo, keeping him secure. “Focus on me, Jesse.”_

_They’re the first and only words he hears, not drowned out by the vacuum._

_Heat pools from his eye, melting down to his center, drawing from all around him and burning him up so fiercely that the sun feels cooling against his skin. It rocks his entire being and spooks the dragon._

_Hanzo releases him, stumbles away. He looks at Jesse with fear in his eyes._

_The sun above is gone, chased away and setting the world in a haze. He’s burning out, lashing tendrils of heat crest outward, framing Jesse in a red light- an omen of the end. It draws in tight, pushes against his skin- too much for too little of a space until it has nowhere to go but out._

_A gunshot rings._

_Hanzo’s scream is all he hears._

-

Cold water wakes him violently and he supposes it’s meant to be cruel and shocking but all it does is relieve the dull burn that simmers inside of him. And omnic stands primly beside his seat, empty bucket turned sideways, but pays Jesse no mind.

Boss stands in front of him in the room of white and chrome, tossing his knife playfully like a toy. He has a self-satisfied smirk on his face and after a few seconds of silence, he grips the knife hard with its blade pointed directly at Jesse. He surges forward, grabs Jesse’s hair in a fist and pulls the gunslinger’s head back to expose his throat.

The tip of the knife breaks skin, a threat, and a thin trickle of blood seeps down to his collar.

“I just don’t get it,” He hisses, eyes narrowed as he scans over Jesse’s face. “What does it want with you?”

Jesse tries not to swallow, spit pooling awkwardly in his mouth. “Whuh?” He says, the best he can without risking the knife piercing more.

“Is it that eye of yours?” The knife tip pulls away slightly, just to drag up his chin and cheek until it rest just under his eye. He twists his face up and stares into Jesse’s eye, “No, we would just take it.” He pulls back, subsequently taking the knife away from Jesse to tap the end against his chin as he sneers down at the cowboy in thought. “Alive.” He spits, “The others were just fine dead, why you?”

Barely audible, Boss’ earpiece crackles to life, drawing him straight up and tight. Something deep and unsettling, a voice most likely, pours from the communication line, though the words are indecipherable.

Boss gives the sharpshooter one last disdainful look before taking his exit, the lifeless omnic following on his heels like a dog.

Left alone in the room once more, he stews in his own thoughts.

How could he have let things turn sideways? He was free, safe, making amends with the people he hurt most and healing. People trusted him, loved him again, grabbed onto him as he fell on his way out of the dirt. They dirtied their hands, helping a soul like his, willingly and without demand for something in return.

They gave and they gave and all Jesse will have to show for it will be taking their lives. It’s not fair.

The thought makes him angry, red blossoming across his vision and his body in a hot flush. He wants so badly to give up the fight, to let Talon take him- he has no doubts that Overwatch will be able to do away with him. They know his tricks now.

But he can’t do that, he can’t risk Hanzo, Hana- his friends being the one to put the nail in his coffin. Jesse can’t be the cruel man to make them face this sort of challenge. He knows they’ll see him for what he was and not what he’ll be- not the enemy Talon will make of him, and it will sour everything good in the world.

He fumes. The burning rage in his gut doesn’t stop, the flames fanned higher by the image of Hanzo shattering. It feels like fire, licking across his shoulders, down his spine, as though Deadeye begins to consume his whole body.

_It’s not fair._

He groans, twisting away from the sensation, like a hot brand being pressed against his skin, only this pulls. He feels tight, too small for his body, everything inside threatening to burst from his back.

Pain greater than anything he’s known, like a thousand needles- a thousand gunshots bleeding from his body, ripples down his back. It rips a scream from him as he lurches forward, afraid they’ve done something to his chair that’s burning- eating him away _._

The metal holding him shrieks in protest as he writhes.

The sound that wrenches from his throat while he struggles is foreign, deep and scratchy- filtering throughout the sterile room like he haunts it.

Jesse pitches backward, back bowing and the metal around his wrists gives, splitting like torn paper.

Free of his restraints, he falls forward, hunched on the ground, curling in on himself as if it would lessen the pain. His hands claw at his back from over his shoulders, tearing the fabric and baring his skin to the cool air of the room- it does little to relieve the burning.

It’s all consuming, terrifying, and he screams another hoarse wail until his lungs run out of air.

Wetness covers his hands, and he pulls his flesh one back to discover his palm is pricked and torn bloody. The gunslinger tries to push himself up, horrified, sides aching from the strain.

A spasm wracks his body as his wrist snaps to an unnatural angle, his ankles following swiftly afterward. He drops, splayed across the ground, helpless but the fire beneath his skin urges him to fight.

He snarls, his mouth suddenly feeling hollow, yet too small like his teeth are crowding forward- every gnash of his jaws, every noise, is cumbersome.

The door to the room slides open and Jesse flinches, caught before he could get free.

“Oh dear,” A woman tuts, softly padding over to him and kneeling. Hands, soft from old age, pet across his shoulders and up the back of his neck until her fingers card into his hair. He jerks away but all it brings from her is laughter. “Boy, help me get him off the floor.”

“Yes’m.” Leslie. The same young drawl. His old friend’s skinny arms tuck under his armpits and haul him up, boney fingers pinching his side when he struggles. “You want me to drop ya?” Leslie warns him, bearing his weight unevenly as he shuffles to get Jesse back into the chair.

“Clean his hands,” The woman instructs. She smells- fragrant and earthy, but wet like old moss.

Jesse looks up, surprise coloring his face when the owner of the Jade Skirt carefully picks her way to stand in front of him. “You,” He croaks.

She smiles, gaps still in her teeth, and milky white eyes staring at him like they can see him. “Now if it ain’t Mr. Doe,” She tilts her head. “You look like shit.”

“How would you know?” He spits, flinching when Leslie presses a cold rag to his flesh palm, a bit too rough. “Watch it.”

Leslie rolls his eyes. “You want this clean or are ya beggin’ for another infection.” The boy pointedly looks at his prosthetic, where it connects to his body just above the elbow. Jesse stills and his old friend sniffs haughtily. “‘S what I thought.”

The old woman watches as Leslie cleans his hand thoroughly and then forces him to lean forward so he can wash at his back. The burning doesn’t stop, even with the cold rag, but it becomes bearable. Jesse’s hair hangs in his face, forcing him to stare at the ground and the old woman’s bare feet. They’re covered in dried, red mud- uneven layers of coloration indicating a haphazard wash. It hits him that she smells like river water.

“Who are you?” He asks to himself, voice rumbling out, only realizing when she laughs that he’d questioned it louder than intended.

“A friend,” She extends her hand, spindling fingers slack and waiting. “Chiuie.”

Hesitantly, he reciprocates.

The touch ignites him from the inside out, an inferno burning back to life, stronger than before. Everything widens and snaps- everything around him is clear, sharp, and bright. He can see Leslie watching him wearily as he curls in on himself with a scream, looking up to the woman over him.

The woman, Chiuie, lets out a shuddering breath, chilled by something and in that moment Jesse wishes he felt just as cold, anything to counter the expanding heat inside of his chest.

Jesse tries to jerk his hand from her grip, anything to stop the burning, the agony, the screams that begin to echo all around him.

Leslie latches onto his arm, tugging when she refuses to let go. “You’re hurting him,” He barks at her, staying resolutely by Jesse’s side.

Her other hand takes his chin, scalding him anew, and forces him to look up into her eyes, which shine such a vibrant green that the earth should be jealous. He tries to shout but his tongue is catches thick in his mouth. “Do not forget my warning, Jesse McCree.”

“We cannot protect you from what lies beneath the surface of the lake.”

-

Jesse jerks awake, pulling at his wrist painfully in the metal shackles of his chair. His body is uncomfortably damp with sweat and he tries his best to wipe his face on his shoulder.

There’s no burning, no pain, no Leslie, and no strange woman of whom he met once on the run. The only thing that lingers from his dream is a dull ache down his spine and an echo of her warning.

He can’t tell how much time has passed - there are no windows or clocks - but judging by the small grumble of his stomach, he’s willing to bet his money on a day and a half. Maybe more if the stress of everything is keeping his appetite at bay.

The bones in his wrists twist awkwardly as he tries to look at his palm, but from what he can tell, there’s no blood.

Time edges to a crawl, slow and empty. No one comes to the room, the speakers hidden at the corners of the room are mute with an old, dull static. They’re trying to break him, to make him willing to do anything to fill the void.

No food. No water. No time. No company. Four things to soften a will.

It has to be hours before the boredom makes his eyes cross and his vision starts hazing out. He fights against it, he’s been sleeping too much- and he doesn’t want to be wide awake when they start working on him. The consistent twist in his empty stomach makes it easier, but soon it will start to drain him of his energy..

But they use deprivation often, if he can’t have food, he should rest while he can. He should think of the open road, the cabin, try to catch sweeter dreams of his life in between the mess. He should remember that for one moment in time, he was happy and without a knife to his neck.

He does what he’s always been begged to do when he can’t find the path himself- he focuses on Hanzo.

-

_Suffocating. He can barely breathe, his nose filled with a pungent floral smell._

_Jesse opens his mouth to gasp for air, but it tickles his throat and he winds up coughing, hacking up something soft - mushy almost - in his fit._

_He sits up abruptly, looking into his hands where moonflower petals and blood mix together. He violently shakes them out of his hands, wiping the crimson fluid off on his pants. Another cough is ripped from him and more petals splatter before him._

_“Gross, Jess.”_

_His head whips up to find Leslie sneering at the clump of bloody flowers like they’re the things responsible for his early death._

_Jesse takes stock of where he is- back in a too-deep red dirt grave, the sky turning deep orange above him. This time, Leslie isn’t there to help him get out, they’re both stuck down there, alone._

_The gunslinger feels unwieldy in his body, like he hasn’t quite got control of it all- one long leg is tucked up under him, the other kicked out to Leslie’s side. His pants are ripped and he’s wearing old dusty combat boots that have seen better days._

_There’s a pain in his scrawny ass, literally, and when he delves a hand underneath him, he pulls out a large bone-handled knife from his pocket. It’s his father’s knife, last seen sailing into the gorge after they buried Leslie._

_He pats himself down- gangly, dirty, and youthful. He’s young again, sixteen if he had to guess. He doesn’t have the fourth set of ear piercings, acquired age seventeen just before Blackwatch came and dismantled Deadlock._

_Another coughing fit starts and Leslie leans forward. “You should get that checked. Ma might know a remedy or somethin’.”_

_The wheezing doesn’t stop and Jesse’s chest begins to ache from the force in which the petals are coming up and out. He’s thankful that the blood seems to have stopped and now it’s just dry white petals spewing forth into his lap._

_However, he’s not thankful for the little titter that comes from his companion in the dirt, a small giggle that turns into a chuckle before Jesse tries to cut it off with a stern look. It fails miraculously when he’s forced to cough again._

_“Really bloomin’ with life there, ain’t ya Jess?”_

_Jesse glares, suppressing his coughs as best he can until he chokes, and that seems to tip Leslie over the edge._

_The young boy pitches forward and squeals with laughter at his own joke and his friend’s reaction. His freckled cheeks turn bright red and soon he’s gasping for breath._

_“That’s an awful joke and you know it, Les.”_

_Leslie doesn’t stop, he’s wheezing, legs kicking out wildly and clutching his midsection. Every time he begins to settle, Jesse coughs again and the fit begins anew. It happens about three times before he starts coughing and gold petals begin falling beside the white between them; marigolds and moonflowers mixing together in the red dirt and drying blood._

_Jesse should be shocked, should be worried that his friend caught whatever curse he has, but instead a devilish smile twists at his lips. He waits until he has Leslie’s attention, blue eyes staring at him curiously._

_“Hey bud,” Jesse drawls, giving his friend a set of finger guns. “How’s it growin’?”_

_They both absolutely lose it. Together in the grave, the two young shitheels of Deadlock laughing up petals. When they can catch a break long enough to speak, they’re relentless to each other._

_“I’m gone, bud not forgotten.”_

_“Oh god that’s… morbud.”_

_They shoot the shit until Leslie crawls up beside him and they sprawl out on their backs in the grave. Despite their size, they barely fitting side by side, staring up at the sky that’s turning navy with sprinkles of shining white stars. Jesse finds the color reminds him of Hanzo, of his hair illuminated by blue scales across his cheeks._

_The petals stop coming as they catch their breath, Leslie begins to point out constellations and their stories. Some are real, and now that he’s older, he knows some are made up but that doesn’t meant Leslie puts any less effort into telling the tales._

_Jesse exhales, listens to his friend talk on and on, passionately so, about the stars. He imagines he could reach up and pluck them right from the sky, rearrange them to tell his own story._

_Before he knows it, daylight comes._

_But it’s not the sun that wakes him._

_Dirt begins to pile in from the sides of the grave, covering their legs and the petals beneath them. Panic spurs him into action and he lurches over and shoves at his companion. “Les! Get up!”_

_He gets no response as the dirt is flung onto his back, the pile at their feet beginning to spill higher and higher. Jesse tugs his legs away and sits up on his knees, leaning over his friend and shaking him, trying to wake him. “Les,” He pleads and begins trying to shove the dirt away from his friend as it fills in around them. “Leslie, c’mon. It ain’t funny.”_

_The sound of a gunshot runs through him like ice, his eyes go wide and his heart beats so impossibly fast that Jesse swears it’ll lurch right out of his throat. “No.” He whispers at first, scrambling at the dirt. “No. No. No,_ no, no _.” His voice breaks and goes high, terror seizing him as he looks at his friend’s face._

_A fresh bullet wound rests between his eyes, and were it not for the hole and the slow trickle of blood, Jesse would think Leslie was still asleep._

_“Les- I’m sorry, Les.” He sobs._

_He starts to claw at the red walls of the grave, climb his way out but it’s too soft. He tries to climb the ever growing mound at Leslie’s feet but the dirt just swallows him, makes him sink back down into the pit with his dead friend._

_“I’m still in here!” He shouts. They’re burying Leslie, he remembers this day. He was so angry he threw just about everything he owned into the gorge. “Please!”_

_No one answers and soon the loose earth is waist high._

_“Somebody!”_

_His chest becomes compressed, it gets harder to breath and when he tries, he coughs up petals. Red camellias. He reaches up, desperate to be seen._

_“Anyone! Please! I’m still here!”_

_Neck high, and the dirt lurches- suddenly he’s older, himself, again. Begging someone to notice that he’s there. Turn around, Reinhardt. Listen to him, Genji. Someone help him._

_Drowning. Submerged in the earth, alone and forgotten. His hand is the last thing to be buried._

“Focus on me, Jesse.”

_Hanzo. Jesse can’t let himself be left here, the dragon will never find him, he has to fight. He has to get back home to Hanzo. There are stories left to share, adventures to have, love to give and receive._

_The earth gives way, yields to his struggles. Jesse has so much that he has to return to, so many people who want him there and safe and alive._

_His hand breaks free. He owes Hana dinner._

_He manages to get his other arm up. Angela has more journals to share._

_He breaks through for air with a gasp. He has to get Widowmaker out._

_Jesse pulls himself through the dirt, muscles crying out from the strain. Genji wants to repair their friendship._

_One leg free. Reaper owes him a rematch._

_He pulls his last limb out of the grave and kneels on his hands and knees, filthy and out of breath. Hanzo._

_The ground beneath him turns to stone, the red dirt turns to limestone pillars holding up a concrete roof, and swathes of fabric rustle with the breeze bringing in a spicy scent. Jesse remembers this place, the market in Istanbul._

_“You didn’t have to do this. It didn’t have to come to this.”_

_The voice hurts more than the words do, synthetic tones warbling in confusion and maybe a hint of desperation. And why wouldn’t it be, Jesse’s been hunting down Genji for weeks now. Dogging his every step._

_It’s about time they had a showdown._

_Jesse reaches for his gun, but it’s not there, it’s on the ground and the second he reaches for it, pain blossoms on his other arm. A wound oozes freely, bloody and open. He quickly replaces his hand over it, trying to stop the red tide._

_Ah. It’s already happened._

_Genji’s blade is already sheathed, the cyborg looming over him, wounded without injury- he’s had to fight a friend, another brother and doesn’t hope for the same outcome.._

_The arm is a warning strike._

_Jesse stares into the puddle of his own blood that pools around him. Small, in comparison to the gallons upon gallons he’s spilled, but it’s enough._

_He can see the monster, a large, yawning maw that swallows the world whole. Hungry eyes, red and gold, stare him down like a meal, just as he stares down any he’s assigned to kill. Teeth shred into his ankles, drag him down, down, down into the blood._

_The gunslinger lets go of his wound, more blood only making the monster stronger, and he reaches out for help. It coils around him until he can’t breathe. He can’t scream this time, the sound lodged in his throat._

_The monster swallows him._

_It’s not at all what he expected, but when he opens his eyes, he’s alive. He’s okay. Relatively speaking. His arm is gone, botched cybernetics attached, but at least he isn’t dying._

_Warbringer is in his hand, the ugly weight feeling wrong in his grip, and he’s in the storeroom at the boatyard._

_Hanzo is across from him, facing down the barrel with betrayal and hurt written on his face. He’s angry, spitting something fierce though the words are muted. Jesse is flanked by Talon agents on either side, a semi-circle firing squad ready to bring down the dragon._

_He looks beautiful, glowing in bright blue scales and his outfit accented with brilliant gold. Royalty and power in one. Even furious, Jesse is smitten with his image._

“Focus on me, Jesse.”

_The words bloom into a bright red heat- the blossom of Deadeye beginning. It burns brighter and quicker than he’s ever felt it before and it goes off so fast he barely registers the shot. But he watches, too stunned for tears, as Hanzo’s body slumps to the ground, lifeless._

_Jesse falls to his knees, screams as the scene around him goes still. It’s just him and the growing pool of blood._

_He clenches his eyes shut, he can’t look, he can’t see what kind of monster he’s been made  into. Hanzo gave him so much, trusted him, and all it brought him was here._

_A flash of gold illuminates behind his eyelids, enough to make him look quickly and there, standing behind the fallen body, is Hanzo- different, somehow. Dull and disheveled, not at all how Jesse sees him._

_The new Hanzo looks down and then over to Jesse. There’s no anger, no pain or contempt, just relief. He steps through his own body like a ghost and holds his hands out for Jesse, smiling down at the gunslinger. “Jesse,” He says and his name has never sounded so sweet._

_Without hesitation, Jesse takes the dragon’s hands and the Talon agents shimmer out of existence as he stands. He lets Hanzo lead him away, knowing the dragon will only keep him safe, protect him, love him. There is nothing but trust in the way he tightens his hold._

_Jesse might not let go, but Hanzo does, in a way._

_As they step through the door, he’s being dragged down a hospital corridor by Leslie._

_The boy runs, forcing Jesse to jog behind him because he can’t slip out of the vice grip his friend has on his hand._

_Fluorescent lights flicker above them; on, off, on, off in repetitive flashes As they pass by each door, the sound of a flatline rings- each occupant dies as they pass._

_Something akin to fear grips at him, though he isn’t sure why and he tries to tug on Leslie’s arm to get him to slow down. He wants to know what’s going on._

_“Don’t look,” Leslie barks and runs faster. “Whatever you do, don’t-”_

_Just like telling a child not to touch, the compulsion doubles until it’s too great and he looks into an open door._

_Hana lays on a bed, flatline, dead. Her eyes stare at the doorway, as if he were the last thing she saw, a look of terror on her face._

_“Jesse!”_

_The cowboy tugs out of Leslie’s grip and bolts. He wants to go back to the storage room, to the new, lively visage of Hanzo. He sprints back where he came from as fast as he can._

_He can hear Leslie chasing, shouting at him - “No, Jess! Not there! Jesse!” - but he ignores it._

_The double doors burst open easily under his weight as he slams into them, but when they shut, they seal away and there’s no way back._

_It’s not the hospital, it’s not the storage room nor a grave- he’s in the strange server room with the prowling wolf._

_The creature waits for him in the middle, a maniacal grin warping it’s face._

_No, not the same wolf. The one from his dream was boney flesh with cybernetics, a cyborg of sorts. This is one all machine with imitations of real wolf grafted onto it._

_Red eyes gleam hungrily and a gray tongue sneaks out to lick at chrome teeth._

‘At last,’ _the room around him buzzes._ ‘The gunslinger.’

_“Who-”_

_The wolf snarls and the room around him quakes, the lights on the faces of the servers flickering in fear. The creature gets up and stalks closer, the lights of it’s eyes whirring to life._ ‘Unbreaking,’ _Something in it’s back snaps._ ‘Unyielding,’ _A piece of it’s organic mass sloughs off._

‘I will destroy the world with you. An army unending. Soldiers incapable of being torn apart, impervious to time. All of our strengths, but no weaknesses- you are the last piece I need.’

_The beast lunges and Jesse draws his gun. The wolf’s maw is met with the barrel of his gun, but the room stretches as he fires- and the wolf disappears, turning to sparks that dance around him and up the walls. The faces all stare at him in horror, up the boundless, unending wall before flickering out. There’s an echo of screaming that fades as the electricity runs away._

_Jesse tilts his head up to watch it skitter as far as it can until all he can see is the endless shadow of the ceiling, and then back to the room._

_His gun is aimed at Hanzo, muted colors in the vibrant room._

_“Jesse, wake up.”_

_Jesse’s hands shake, he knows what’s about to happen. Every time he’s heard Hanzo, Deadeye has come- he can’t do it again. He can’t hope there’s another waiting to lead him away._

_The terrifying thought comes- what if this isn’t a dream? What if he’s already turned, and he’s breaking through but still a pawn like Widowmaker. He knows he shouldn’t shoot, but he will when he hears those words._

_“Jesse,”_

_“No!” He barks, thumb pulling back the hammer. Both hands hold his gun, his whole body shaking._

_“Wake up,”_

_Tears, a strange consistency, thick almost like jelly gather at the corners of his eyes._

“Focus on me, Jesse.”

_It starts._

_The heat begins to eat him alive. He can’t do this, he can’t live like her, knowing what he’s done and being unable to fight it. Jesse will fall without the wind._

_He can’t._

_His arms shake and pulls back his gun._

_The metal of the barrel presses hot against his head, the smell of gunpowder still lingers from his first shot. This one will be his last._

_Hanzo’s voices wash over him, give him peace and sense of calm._ ‘You must make the choice, Jesse.’ _They tell him again, endearingly, encouraging. He can make a choice, and in this moment while he still can, before he goes back to the fog of his own reconditioning, he_ will _make this choice._

_He shuts his eyes, can’t stand to see the panic that overtakes Hanzo’s face, the desperation and horror._

‘I love you,’ _Jesse thinks,_ ‘You tried for me.’ _And while he wishes Hanzo wouldn’t have to see this, wouldn’t have to be here for his end, at least he will survive._

_The heat pulls inward and it never expands, it burns him to the core, overtaking him like the sun. It’s white hot and he holds it for as long as he can._

_As soon as he hears the rapid footfalls of running - Hanzo - toward him, he pulls the trigger._

-

Jesse jolts awake when sharp claws dig at his arms and scales scrape too hard against his skin. Metal shrieks around him accompanied with a symphony of whines and pleas.

“Jesse, please wake up. Do not leave me, my love. My sunshine.” A single voice cries, Hanzo tucking his head into Jesse’s neck where thick wet tears fall.

It takes too long to come back to the present, to recount where he is, to realize his arms and legs are free and a rather sizable dragon is crushing him into the chair.

Clutching at him like Jesse might disappear.

“Hanzo?” His voice is raspy from disuse and dehydration.

The dragon curls into him more, coils bunching up. “I am here.”

“It ain’t a dream.”

Hanzo rears back, rubs at his face again, softer but with no less fervor. “No, you are here. Alive. Jesse.”

Restraint snaps and Jesse throws his arms around the serpent, enveloping his partner in his arms. He’s okay. It’s right here, he’s okay and Hanzo is here. Someone came for him.

The cry that Jesse lets loose is nothing short of heartbreaking, his sobs shaking his body as the dragon coils around him.

They clutch and grab at each other. Entangled, filled with relief so overwhelming that words do not come. In their silence, there is warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big smorches to Aki for being a faithful editor. You've stuck with me through this whole project and I'm excited to start some new ones with you! <3
> 
> -revs engines for the sequel-
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	15. Reverie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, getting home from work, intending to nap: I'm free  
> Aki, appearing from the shadows: no you're not, I just finished editing (B  
> Me, sobbing and clawing my way to my computer: shit you right

Hanzo stares hard at the tablet resting in the center of the table, a projection of a sprawling base’s layout brought to life above it. The blueprints illuminate the dingy safehouse’s living room, casting it in a bright blue light.

“And you trust your source?”

Reaper drums his claws on the worn, wooden surface. “Explicitly.” When Hanzo doesn’t react, he adds, “Exclusively.”

The archer hums, eyes traversing the hallways, trying to pin where they might hold Jesse in this facility. From what he can tell, there are no wings shaped like the Pen, no cluster of small rooms with one door in and out.

Genji swipes the image downwards and it zooms out, filling in with color and displaying the surrounding area- it looks like a meager gas station along a wide stretch of empty road. It’s sat in the middle of flat lands, golden and grassy with the sunny heat, nowhere to hide their approach except for a decrepit building across the way. It appears to have once been a school, if the overgrown track is any indication.

“Tomorrow we’ll do some recon. Talon always operates their fronts, so if it looks like a gas station, it works like a gas station.” Reaper informs, watching Genji spin the image. “Lúcio and Hana will create a distraction, go in, grab some snacks, be obnoxious travelers- whatever you need to do to keep them occupied for a few minutes.” He reaches out and grabs Genji’s wrist, dragging it down to the table where he keeps it. “In that time, Hanzo and Genji will set up and keep watch from the old school, and I will get Zenyatta and I into the complex.”

Hana leans back and kicks her feet up onto the table, a habit no doubt learned from the cowboy they’re trying to find. “No offense, but you don’t exactly seem like the stealthy kind of guy- why not the other way around? Send the ninjas in.”

The wraith chuckles. “Discretion won’t be a problem but-”

Hanzo stands abruptly, the legs of the chair squealing against the cheap linoleum. All eyes turn to him, but his vision’s left trained to the hologram of the gas station with a set, deep scowl.  They’re wasting so much time; a day for the recon, perhaps more, and if they plan the night after, there’s another day to enact it. But what if their intel is wrong, what if Jesse isn’t even there?

What if the cowboy is half way across the world, waiting for them? For him.

He steps away from the table, motioning towards the holomap. “Prepare a plan of attack- we have the blueprints, that should be enough. We leave none alive if we find them.” He takes a steadying breath in. “I will see for sure if he is there. Tonight.”

Hanzo leaves the room, before they can ask more questions than he has answers for.

He strides into the small bedroom, not bothering to shut the door because Genji is hot on his heels and completes the action for him.

The bed is lumpy with too much give as he climbs onto it, settling himself in the middle. He pulls off his boots, careful not to catch his claws on the comforter as he tucks his legs underneath himself, and shoulders off the sleeves of his top.

“Can you reach him from here?” Genji asks, watching him.

The archer nods confidently. “I have reached further before.” He huffs. Finding Jesse the first time had been no easy task. “I will just need some time.”

His brother mock salutes him, “I shall keep them out of your hair.” And then slips out of the room, letting the door fall closed behind him.

With the door as a barrier between himself and all distractions, he attempts to meditate, controls his breathing, exhaling in even measures. He quiets his mind, lets everything outside of himself fall away until he’s beginning to drift.

But. Something dips onto the bed in front of him and Hanzo’s eyes snap open in alarm, only to find his missing cowboy sprawled across the mattress on his side. He’s propped up on one arm, giving Hanzo that goofy smile he wears when particularly enamoured with something the dragon’s done.

It has been a long while.

It’s a trick, an illusion. A distraction from his task.

He draws himself away, ignoring how every fiber of his being wants to reach out and touch what isn’t real.

“So this is how ya work your magic?”

Hanzo sneers. “I am trying to concentrate.”

Jesse laughs, the bed shifts and when Hanzo peeks, the gunslinger’s rolled onto his back, arms stretched languidly over his head. “That don’t mean I can’t help.”

“You are not real. You cannot be real.”

“That’s true,” The illusion assents. “But y’know I’m here for ya regardless.”

The archer sighs, dropping his shoulders. Perhaps if he addresses this, it will go away faster than if he ignores it- and he can go back to searching for the real Jesse. “I do not need you.”

Jesse smiles. “You don’t.” He agrees, melting into the bed, making himself at home. His gaze is warm, like honey. “But you think I’m mighty cute.”

This is pointless. Hanzo frowns. This is a figment of his own imagination, leftover from his selfish desires and desperation. The cowboy isn’t here, he’s waiting somewhere to be found- hopefully nearby.

“Somethin’ pretty to look at while you work.”

He groans, burying his face in his hands. “You are worse in my head than in real life.” He laments aloud, voice muffled. Jesse’s lines were always atrocious… endearing, but awful in their own way. He’s known this longer than he’s actually known the gunslinger.

Once upon a time, this was who he dreamed the man to be, on nights where he was lost in his mission and his own self-imposed quest festered in his heart. He’s a stock image, created from countless pieces of information, archived videos and the words of those that knew him.

Looking at the visage now, Hanzo is embarrassed, ashamed. But he still loves him, just as he loves the real Jesse.

The dragon hazards an examination of his illusion, eyes following the line of Jesse’s long, thick body. He’s gained weight since he was dragged back to Overwatch, a healthy mass of muscle beneath a softer layer- this Jesse is more solid, cut, than the one he lays next to. His beard is too wiry, with strands of red and shaved clean on the corners of his jaw.

At a glance, he could’ve been the real Jesse, at one point, but now that the cowboy is in his life, not in his dreams, he can see all details he got wrong.

Hanzo sighs.

This illusion is here for a reason; nothing pervades the dragon’s mind easily, not when he’s safeguarded himself from it since he was young.

 _‘You think you are the only one who can walk among dreams?’_ The elders would taunt, their cruel eyes seeking pleasure in their control over him. _‘Our enemies would send assassins for you, slay you in your sleep so that you may never wake.’_

A hand resting over his jerks him away from the memory of being a puppet.

“Hey,” Jesse’s voice soothes him, pulls him away from the bed, back into the empty space between his dreams and the waking world. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere important.”

The cowboy is sitting close, cross legged and knees flanking his sides. The invasion of his space is welcome and for a moment he can believe the warmth coming from his mate is real. For just a few seconds, he can be selfish.

“Come here.” Hanzo demands.

Jesse doesn’t budge. “I’d love to, darlin’. But y’gotta find me first.”

“I am trying,” He hisses in return, stung from the rejection. “You are distracting me.”

“Am I?”

No. Not in the slightest.

“Focus on me, Hanzo.”

The dragon strikes, his hands fisting into the collar of Jesse’s shirt and tugging the gunslinger forward. He tumbles halfway into Hanzo’s lap, their lips just an inch apart but neither can get closer. “Where are you?” Hanzo growls, looking straight into languid brown eyes.

“You can find me,” The cowboy is breathless, his muscles tense as he tries to push forward and close the gap but Hanzo keeps them away from each other. “If anyone can do it, you can. Feel me,” Jesse’s hands crawl up his thighs and to his waist, settling there. “It’s easier than before, now that you know me.”

Hanzo nods. “I do.”

“Who’s on yer throne?”

“A cowboy.”

“Any ol’ cowboy?” Jesse chuckles weakly. “You sayin’ I got competition?”

Hanzo hisses. “There is only one who belongs.”

“Then bring me home.”

-

_The world builds itself around him, long swathes of silk folding around corners and pulling tight to paste themselves against invisible structures. The colors shift in gradient hues until they paint a scene- a dream._

_Hanzo is in a dark room, several guns pointed his direction and in the center of them is Jesse. His Jesse. The man looks haunted, crumpled on his knees and clenching his eyes shut with such force that his face dusts with red._

_On the ground, just before the archer’s feet, is himself._

_A version of himself, bleeding out, but brightly illuminated with brilliant scales and gleaming gold. A radiant image of the light Jesse sees him in, of what the gunslinger thinks of him._

_It’s a stark contrast to the muted tones he wears now, casting no light and no shadow - something that merely exists to drift in the presence of others. A ghost that watches._

_Relief overwhelms him and Hanzo steps past his body, the corpse of a dream that Jesse holds. He offers his hands to the fallen man, smiling when his cowboy looks up. “Jesse,”_

_The gunslinger blinks, takes his hands, and with the contact comes Hanzo’s ability to save the man from the nightmare._

_His body sinks into the ground, leaving behind a puddle of water. The Talon agents surrounding them shimmer as they fade, washed out of existence until it’s just Hanzo and Jesse._

_He can lead him to happier places, to better dreams in which to settle until Hanzo and the team can get to him._

_Hanzo pulls Jesse with him, shouldering open the door to guide him…_

_But as they step through, the doors swing shut in the dragon’s face and he watches through gridded windows as a young boy hurries away with his mate. Hanzo slams himself back against the door, grabs at the handles and shakes to little avail; locked._

_He’s lost control, his domain invaded by something that keeps him out._

_“Jesse!” He yells, hoping the cowboy will turn around and let him in. Come back to him._

_It stings, to have found him to lose him again so soon, even if only connected by a dream._

_He splits apart, the dragons growing in size and pushing their weight against the doors. Sweetheart whines at Jesse’s retreating form as Sugarcube tries desperately to break the barrier that keeps him from his mate._

_“Jesse!” His voices echo in the empty room._

_He roars and the world crumbles away._

-

“Hanzo,”

He jolts awake, faced with Genji standing at the end of the bed, posture tense.

Sitting up, Hanzo’s head swims briefly. A glance out the window tells him it’s nighttime and only just if the fading glow of the evening is anything to go by.

“You were screaming.”

“Was I?” He flexes his fingers, feels the ghost of Jesse’s hands in his, trusting and pleading.

Genji shifts. “You yelled his name. Did you find him?”

Hanzo closes his eyes, pushing down his sense of loss from watching the cowboy run away from him. He feels split in two still, yet here he sits as a man. “He is nearby; it was easy to find him.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “He was already dreaming.”

“It is only just night-”

“I know!” The archer grips the bedspread beneath his hands, fingers twisting into the fabric and ripping underneath his claws. What was Jesse going through that he was sleeping at such an odd hour? He takes in a breath, calms the rising swell of rage. “How soon will we be ready?”

His brother stares at him for a moment. “Soon, I’d imagine. Gabriel is just outfitting Hana with some gear- but she wanted to make sure you were okay.” When he raises his brows in question, Genji sighs. “You were screaming. We could all hear it.”

Hanzo purses his lips and sits on the side of the bed, righting himself and his clothes. “What did you tell them?”

“That I should be the one to wake you up from your Nightmare. After all,” Genji pulls back his shoulders and stands straight, folding his hands behind himself- vaguely reminiscent of their father. “ _‘It is unwise to wake a sleeping dragon, for claws may find your throat.’_ ”

“So dramatic.”

Genji relaxes and tilts his head up. “He always was.” He heads for the door, pausing to look back at Hanzo. “I will come get you when we’re ready, if you haven’t joined us by then.”

-

Incapacitating the omnic who works the gas station is easy enough, Lúcio making work of dumping the body in the dumpster out back.  However, unlocking the base’s doors requires more effort in the form of Reaper speaking in hushed, aggravated spanish over a private line.

“Is he really down here?” Hana quirks her brow, watching as the wraith stalks back and forth between the slushie machine and lotto case.

Following her gaze, Hanzo nods. “Yes,”

“How do you know?”

“I can feel it.” Is all he says, cryptic at best. Pin-pricks race across his skin, make the hair stand off the back of his neck, like goosebumps, reminding him of how close he is.

Zenyatta and Genji come to flank Reaper, with the omnic floating innocently to block his path and Genji closing in. Reaper cocks his head, looking between the two with an aggravated sigh.

After a moment, the back wall folds in on itself, revealing a staircase leading into darkness. Hana leans forward, as if peering down in the depths of hell. “Yeah, I’ve got a gut feeling too.”

Hanzo snorts, facing away from her to hide the slight curl of his lips. Gut feeling, hah. If only it were just. No, he feels this, feels the gunslinger still dreaming, escaping reality. Pieces of him pull and push for him to get closer, to find Jesse and keep him near.

Single file, they work their way into the belly of the beast.

The descent sets everyone on edge, silence ringing in their ears. Their footsteps do little to quell the tension, greeted only by echoing metallic tamps and the clatter of Lúcio’s skates. No one says a word.

The narrow way opens up at the bottom of the stairs, a large metal door looming before them.

“We’re here,” Reaper speaks in a whisper, and the door hisses, disengaging and sliding open. Dust and dirt filter out in a cloud, coating their ankles as if they’re walking straight into a tomb.

Another long hall stretches before them, wider so that they can all step over the threshold in a loose formation.

Something snaps in all of them, anxiety building and their patience running thin, an invisible force pushes them to move faster. Who speeds up first will never be known, but soon they’re all sprinting down the hall.

They all know the first thing they’ll encounter- a three way split.

“Left,” Genji calls, veering off and disappearing around a corner, a black mist following after.

“Forward,” Hana and Lúcio say at the same time, rushing past. Lúcio takes to the wall, gliding smoothly until his green running lights are all but gone.

Hanzo stops, watching them disappear. They’re not helpless, he tells himself, but they are important to the future and this is Talon they’re dealing with. .

“Onward.” Zenyatta continues on after them, giving Hanzo a look and a nod over his shoulder.

It’s an uneven split, but not unwelcome. He can function just as well alone, and Zenyatta will keep newer blood from the malaise of Talon.

“Right.” He mutters to himself and takes off.

The halls stretches on and on, he feels too slow in their unending sprawl.

It feels natural to split, to glide down the corridor like the winds of a storm pushing through. He coils and twists around himself, hunting the same man he sought in the fall. The goal is the same: Bring him back. Only now there is far more at stake.

He stretches, grows, claws scraping away deep furrows in the concrete. This base is his mate’s prison, he has no reverence for it. He rends the world apart around him in his search.

Hanzo’s onslaught is halted when he comes face to face with a wall, one not in the schematics they’d received.

A fork lies before him.

“Left.” Sweetheart pulls.

“Right.” Sugarcube pushes.

He looks at himself, his hearts warring suddenly in his indecision. Jesse is near, he can feel him trapped in his slumber, but he can’t determine which way. He can go one way first, but it might be too late to go the other if he isn’t correct the first time. He’s wasting time.

“I used to multitask.” - “In two places at once.” He reminds himself.

It’s efficient, he knows this.

“I can do this.” - “I must do this.”

“For Jesse, everything.” - “For Jesse, anything.”

He unwinds from himself, pulling apart. It tears like a knife wound, a severance he hasn’t experienced in over ten years. A world apart and once out of sight, his only communication with himself will be his words- in tandem or one after the other. He will experience everything twice through his bodies.

“Time grows short,” - “Do not let it go to waste.”

Sweetheart watches as Sugarcube flies out of sight, the dragon’s small tail slipping around a corner. One of him shudders, heart twisting because it’s only him. One of him. Sugar inhales, as Sweetie exhales. The concentration of the mission, of finding his mate wins out, seeping through both minds.

He turns, follows the left hall, searching and leaving destruction as he goes. He tears cameras out of the ceiling, wrenches doors apart and checks each room behind them.

Just as it occurs to him that there hasn’t been any opposition, the soft click of a gun echos in the corridor before him.

The sweeping curve of a woman stands, Widowmaker has her rifle trained on him.

He freezes in his tracks, ready to strike should he need to. A feeling of dread settles in the pit of his stomach despite knowing this woman cares for Jesse. She would help him find the cowboy.

“Friend,” He says to himself, trying to calm the rush of fear and desperation.

 _‘Foe!’_ He feels Sugarcube scream.

Sweetheart lowers himself to the ground, stalking closer to Widowmaker. She keeps her gun trained on him, right between his horns.

He takes a bet, gets close enough to press the muzzle of her rifle to his head. “Friend.” As much for himself as it is for her.

_‘Foe!’_

Widow narrows her eyes, takes one hand from her gun and fishes something from her pocket. She drops it on the ground, “You know where to find him. He knows where to find me.” She scoffs, before backing down the hall, from the way Hanzo came, keeping her rifle raised.

He doesn’t move until she’s disappeared. A small wave of dread bubbles up. He wonders if he should worry, for the others. But his attention turns to the floor. A set of keys lay where the sniper once stood, a room number printed on them.

013D.

With renewed vigor, he continues his warpath, the mounting dread turning him desperate. He’s impatient, he’s unsteady. His heart hammers from being split between two areas. He tries to ground himself, searching for the edges of Jesse’s dreams as he runs, to touch and run along them like a guide. He can practically taste it, fizzling like fresh lightning. The edges of the dream aren’t a tangible threshold, but his mind cries out from the call of his domain.

A familiar warmth seeps into his being and guides him- the door barring the way is nothing to him, metal twisting easily under his claws and his weight combined.

Shackled into a metal chair, better than he expected to see, the gunslinger sits.

It’s a haunting mimic of the man on the throne in his dreams.

“Jesse,”

-

_This dream builds itself fast and unexpected around him, knocking the wind from his lungs. A server room, in height unending surrounds him with no entrances or exits- it’s only Jesse and him and the fading howls of a creature._

_The sharpshooter has a gun aimed at him, he seems surprised._

_“Jesse,”_

_“No!” He barks, cocking the gun and shaking. Hanzo scowls. Something haunts the cowboy, an experience that’s left him breaking._

_“Wake up,” Hanzo pleads, his heart breaking when Jesse starts to cry before him. “Focus on me, Jesse.”_

_The warmth of the room flees them, the air around him turning ice cold and vacuous. A soft haze surrounds his mate, framing him in a sunset glow, eyes flooding with red and gold._

_Deadeye._

_It scares Jesse, makes him scream out desperately before wrenching the gun on himself. Peacekeeper has never before looked so threatening in Hanzo’s eyes._

_The cowboy gasps, shoulders relaxing as the metal barrel presses to his forehead, a finality to his movements as he closes his eyes. “You tried for me.” He says, the glow around him filling into an opaque red sun._

_No._

_Hanzo breaks into a dead run, determined to knock the gun from his hands._

_Jesse pulls the trigger._

_The gun goes off._

-

-

Reasonably, Jesse knows they should leave. He knows he should get up and run far before both he and Hanzo are stuck here forever.

But he doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, trapped in an endless loop of nightmares. He needs the moment to come to grips that the dragon in his arms is real, that someone came for him. He twists his hands in the fur along the dragon’s back, buries his face against Hanzo’s long body, and takes deep breaths in. He can’t help the silly grin he gets when Hanzo butts his head against his cheek and rubs at him affectionately.

It’s not just anyone who came for him, it’s his dragon.

Dragon.

The dragon in his arms freezes suddenly, eyes wide and lips curling to bear his teeth in a silent, ferocious snarl. He breathes heavy and labored, his body falling pliant, his claws flexing and digging slowly into Jesse’s arms.

Suddenly he wrenches Hanzo away from him and stares at the dragon he holds. “Sweetheart,” He says, earning a stir. “Where’s Sugarcube?”

“You cannot... have him.” He speaks slowly, dragging in wet breaths between.

Jesse goes to ask who, but hesitates when he sees fear cross Sweetheart’s face, eyes glossing over. Instead he re-threads his fingers into his golden fur, wipes away the strings of drool falling from Sweetheart’s jaws, tries to keep him grounded here.

“I am not... afraid... of you.”

It occurs to the gunslinger that the conversation is not with him. Somewhere, Sugarcube is defending himself. He takes Sweetheart’s chin in hand, staring into the glazed eyes of a dragon far away. “Who,” He whispers. “Who aren’t you afraid of?”

Sweetheart shudders violently. “Sandman.”

He hefts himself up, leg muscles screaming at the sudden use after so many hours - days? - chained to the metal chair. Sweetheart, half out of his mind, curls around Jesse, silent as he tucks his face into the cowboy’s neck.

Jesse goes to the sink, twisting it on and greedily cupping water up to his face. It tastes slightly metallic, but clean. He would sit here all day, gorge himself on it until he threatened to pull a stitch in his side, but all he needs is just enough to get him to Sugarcube. Just enough to save the man who would risk everything for him.

He goes as fast as he can, following the destroyed hallways. Unfortunately with everything aching, with running on empty, he has to stop to rest more often than he’d like. Eventually he gets to where he can only assume the two dragons split because Sweetie unwraps from around him and glides around a corner.

The cowboy follows faithfully, apologizing when he finds Sweetheart waiting around a corner for him to catch up, receiving only gentle chuffs in return.

Hanzo’s silence worries him- he knows the dragons speak together, two voices for one mind. If Sweetheart isn’t speaking, neither is Sugarcube and the implication fills him with dread.

The halls in this route aren’t destroyed, and in fact he sees no trace of a dragon having ever been here until he turns a corner and finds the chaos Sugarcube left behind.

Bodies are strewn about, black oil leaking from mechanical parts. Omnics - with organic pieces,  a chunk of one giving way under Sweetheart’s foot with a squelch. He wrinkles his nose from the ripe smell that wafts through the air. They can’t have been dead long, yet the stench of decay is strong. Like a bouquet of dead bodies.

They rest in all manner of disrepair. Some are combusted with sparks, fried from the inside out with electricity, and others are torn to pieces with long gashes and mauled until unrecognizable. Their firearms are in much the same way.

In his frenzy, Sugarcube left no survivors and no weapons.

All except a piddly plastic flare gun. It’s bright red color stands out against the pallor of death, chrome, and oil.

He hesitates only a fraction to lean down and pick it up; reconsidering if it’s really worth having to scrape aside a hunk of rotting flesh. He takes a note of a tattoo, a prison tattoo, Russian if he remembers his facts.

It makes him aware of the various other inks on the remains, numbers and letters in script and faded with time. A hand with two mechanic fingers and two flesh sports the letters F - U and it doesn’t take a wild imagination to know what comes after.

People. The pieces came from real people.

Before he can dwell, Sweetheart nudges him forward, desperate to get to Sugarcube.

Flare gun tight in his hand, he jogs with the dragon as long as he can.

As they go, Sweetie speaks again, still slow- drugged. “You… will suffer.”

Jesse doesn’t question any twist or turn, the dragon knows where it needs to go.

Eventually the hallway opens up into a yawning mess hall, where the carnage is no less brutal. In the ruins, bodies lay everywhere, tossed around in a flurry of violence. Jesse does his best to ignore the half of a real man that’s caught on one of the suspended fluorescent lights.

The cry that Sweetheart lets out is nothing short of heart wrenching, and draws his attention across the room.

There, surrounded with injured agents, is Boss and the omnic which had dumped a bucket of water over Jesse.

On the ground, legs bound together and held under several layers of netting, is Sugarcube. Bright red darts stick out of his hide, at least five that Jesse can see from this distance. The dragon’s eyes are half open, lazily drifting. When he hears the call of his other self, he begins to struggle.

Boss sneers, pulling the rifle from off of his shoulder and shoots another dart into Sugarcube.

Jesse can feel his blood boil and nearly mimics the fury he reads in the line of Sweetheart’s body, the dragon’s teeth gnashing in a warning.

The omnic returns the threat when it’s arm shifts into a heavy duty gun and aims straight for Sugarcube’s chest.

Sweetheart reels back, but it only serves to fuel his anger, his claws digging into the ground.

“Now that I have your attention, Mister McCree,” Boss calls across the room, setting the butt of his rifle on Sugar’s body as well as a boot, leaning into it. Beneath him, Sugarcube lets out a whine. “Let’s chat.”

Jesse snarls. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say to you.”

Boss presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “After all I’ve done for you? I’m wounded, McCree, really I am.” He sighs, “But you won’t have to do any talking, I just thought you might be interested in knowing there’s a way for your pet lizard here,” He presses his boot harder into Sugarcube. “To live through this.”

The gunslinger’s hand tightens around the flare gun, the plastic creaking under the pressure.

The Talon leader perks up, eyes settling on Sweetheart with delight. “I wonder though, if I kill one does it kill the other? Can he change back without it’s twin?” He smiles cruelly. “Maybe I don’t offer you the deal and find out- for science of course. It’ll be a shame to lose such a creature, really, but you must know-”

“What do you want?!” Jesse snaps, stomach churning. Beside him, Sweetheart is restless, the coils of the dragon twisting on himself.

“It’s no longer that simple, McCree. You and your little boyfriend have caused quite a number of problems for us. My hands are tied,” He sounds remorseful, as though the situation would be any different if he had control. It’s a lie, Jesse knows, and the tone sets him on edge. “It wants you today and it wants your pets dead.”

The gun on the omnic cocks and Sweetheart’s claws are on his legs, up his back, shrinking, climbing him and curling around him.

“The compromise I can give you is that if you go with my friend here willingly, I promise I will treat these beasts with nothing but the finest luxuries.” Boss’s smile curls. “How fitting for dragons to be the pets of a future world leader.” He drifts into a daydream, staring wistfully at the ceiling. “I’ll never have to worry about my enemies. All will be put in their place by my gracious pets.”

Hanzo gnashes his jaws. He isn’t a thing. Not a beast, not weapons, not something to be owned.

The words burn ugly in Jesse’s chest. He lifts the flare gun and aims it at Boss, the rush of blood drowning out the bark of laughter the man gives. Years. Years he was cowed under the Sandman’s hold. Years they kept him under broken and believing he wasn’t worth keeping and now he’s all they want. Now he’s threatening the dragons and he’s not giving Jesse a real choice.

But he was given a taste of freedom. Where he realizes he still has one- where he once feared this man with every fiber of his being, all he wants now is to end him. He’s never held the same animosity towards another man. Not to his mother’s husband. Not even to the man who shot his father.

“Oh that’s rich, if you think that,” Boss jabs a finger in his direction, “Is going to cause any damage.” The man devolves into laughter, wiping fake tears from under his eyes.

Sugarcube stirs, wakes. The dart’s effect wears off quickly- it’ll take more than that to put down a dragon. But Boss isn’t having it, lazily spinning his rifle and pumping two more tranqs into the dragon.

Sweetheart coils around the gunslinger’s body crawling out over his extended arm with his fangs bared. His long whiskers flutter, the rumbling in his chest coming out like thunder and shaking Jesse to the core.

He feels it more than he hears it, Hanzo’s voices ringing in his head.

_‘Focus on me, Jesse.’_

There’s a moment of fear, of dread where he’s sure that he’s going to snap. This is what Boss wanted, to turn him inside out, but instead it steadies him.

Everything slows down, comes into focus with a clarity he’s never had before. All at once he’s the kid by the creek, the teenager aiming at cans, the rebel in an accident, the soldier off the record. It doesn’t matter what banner he flies under, what titles or names he’s held, in this moment it’s just him.

The mocking words of all who have doubted him, the screams of those he’s damned, all fade into silence.

He can feel the ghost of his father’s hand on his shoulder, and hears the whisper in his ear, “Isko,” his father says, “Iskoochās.” _A small fire._

The heat is bearable, still an inferno but he doesn’t burn alive in his skin. It draws in, feels like home on a summer’s day, and then washes outward slow and easy.

There’s no explosion, no sudden violent snap of pain in his eye or his chest as he pulls the plastic trigger. Nothing comes out, empty, a dud and for a brief second his hope fizzles.

He’s reminded of a question he asked himself, staring into a bottle after the confrontation with Hanzo on base, back before they used their words and tried to mend wounds. _If not with a firearm, then what will it shoot?_

The answer, this time, is a dragon. Sweetheart launches like a whip, alighting in a bright, fluorescent blue, soaring through the air and growing, growing, growing until he reaches the omnic and shreds through their metal bodies. The machine crumples in his powerful jaws, the sparks from it’s corpse dancing along pulsing blue scales.

Scared, the Talon agents open fire on the dragon.

All noise drowns in Hanzo’s roar- it sounds like a crack of thunder, the world falling mute around them like they’re in the center of the sea in the eye of the storm, like it’s the open sky above them instead of raftered ceilings.

Hanzo doesn’t stop growing, his body pushing at the ceiling and the walls until dust rains down and Jesse loses sight of him in the falling debris. The building groans, shaking beneath his feet as it threatens to collapse and bury this wing alive, but the roaring storm of a dragon prevents it- somehow.

He knows when Sugar rises, flashing like lightning illuminating the silhouettes of their enemies. A dart skitters across the floor near his feet, the needle bent and burned. Their dance is a storm, unbreakable and unforgiving. All who have slighted him will fall.

There’s little he can do but stand and watch. Jesse finds a sick sort of pleasure out of watching the dragons encircle one last, standing form, before they strike and hearing Boss’ scream cut short with a wet snap.

The room falls silent. The storm dissipates, leaving behind a thin mist and the building settles.

The gunslinger prepares to face whatever walks out of the fog.

Rapid footsteps break the silence, a run, not unlike the set he heard in his final dreams.

His heart soars as Hanzo’s form breaks through the mist and soot at a dead sprint. He’s put together, a man on two legs but with the hearts of dragons fueling him forward.

Under normal circumstances, Jesse could catch the archer with no problem, but captivity has left him a bit weak and shakier than he’d like to admit, the adrenaline dying down, and they go sprawling to the ground. The wind is knocked from him, but he quickly wraps his arms around Hanzo and pulls him close.

For his part, Hanzo is in hysterics, laughing as he grasps and scrambles on top of Jesse.

It’s a wonder he isn’t outright sobbing- surely it’s no small feat, to push through his fears. Not with the trauma. Not since the death of his brother has he split, and the one time he finally does, he found a piece of himself held hostage again.

Jesse drags him up with the intent to kiss the living daylight out of his partner, but is met with firm lips pressed closed.

“No.” Flushed red Hanzo slips a hand between their lips and pushes himself away. “They were quite gamey.” He mutters, ushering a bark of laughter from Jesse.

It feels foreign, but relieving to laugh in a time like this, and he’s sure there would be tears if he had any left. Nothing but ellation and the settling calm of victory surround them.

A crackle draws Hanzo’s attention and he presses a hand to his ear, activating a comm. “I found him.” He sits up and looks around them, unimpressed by the carnage he’s caused. “All personnel encountered have been terminated.”

Jesse follows, sitting up and keeping his arms securely around the archer’s waist. Like hell he’s letting go after all of that. They’ll have to get a crowbar to wrench him away.

“He is safe, we will meet you at the rendezvous point.”

Hanzo pauses. “No.”

“We are unharmed.”

He taps off the comm and scowls.

Jesse thinks to himself ‘fuck it’, and yanks Hanzo into a kiss anyways. The archer was right, his breath is horrid, tasting like rot and he immediately regrets it. He chokes and wipes his tongue on his sleeve. Yeah, he’s gonna taste that for awhile. Above him, the dragon snorts. “I warned you.”

Hanzo cups his face, scraping his claws through jesse’s mangled beard, thumbs brushing across his cheeks. “You are here.”

Jesse leans into the touch, preening. He’s right where he wants to be. Off the edge of the map, smack dab in the middle of the dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big big smooches to Aki, my wonderful editor and friend. Without you, this story would be half as much <3
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


	16. Into the Horizon

Recovery is faster the second time they’ve pried him from Talon’s grasp. Reasonably so; his prosthetics are connected correctly and accounted for, he doesn’t have to hide away from the faces of people he’s disappointed, and he isn’t looking over his shoulder quite as much.

They welcome him back with open arms- or in Hana’s case, with arms closed around him so tight that he goes red in the face and wheezes for breath. He taps out, but she doesn’t relent, only pacified by the mention of breakfast. It’s late in the evening, but she insists she cleans up his overgrown beard before they popping over to the kitchen. Jesse winds up making her french toast as she hovers around him, taking pictures while he works.

And a mere few days later, Reinhardt cooks a hearty feast - to which Angela warns him not to gorge on lest it make him sick. Ana keeps him company while he sits in the cafeteria, the smell making his stomach audibly gurgle. Her spiced tea keeps it occupied while he waits, but it does little to quell the urge to ignore the doctor’s orders.

He wilts a little when he’s told that his mother was here, all but gone in the wind now. It stings to know she came for him but, for some reason, didn’t stay to see him. They can’t find her, even Mac doesn’t know where she’s gone and it infuriates Jesse how nonchalant he sounds about it. Jesse’s told she’ll turn up eventually, but after all that’s happened, he worries.

For the better part of Jesse’s recovery, Hanzo relents, holding back when he coils around the gunslinger during the night. But when he regains his strength, the dragon feasts and they spend the day holed up in their room.

The archer renews marks that have long faded, giving way to his fear, encircling and grasping at him as if he’d slip away at any moment. Each dragon croons into his ears, following a rolling hum that reverberates through Jesse as they celebrate their bounty. Jesse tries his damnedest to return lasting marks on the dragon, but nothing stays longer than an hour. Still, he burns with delight as he bites at hanzo’s flank and rakes his nails down the archer’s back.

Angela chokes on her midday snack when Jesse sneaks into her lab to ask for some healing salve and points to a bright red bite mark against the crook of his neck. Proud of the display, he merely hooks his fingers into his belt loops  and smugly shrugs, “You should see the other guy.”

The following day he runs into Soldier for the first time in weeks. He stops Jesse with an outstretched hand, the line of his visor burning holes into him. He bristles, prepares to clash and bite back, but the old soldier simply cranes his head and grunts, “...Good to have you back.”  
  
And with that he brushes past, leaving Jesse alone in the hall.  

Begrudgingly, he lets them fit his prosthetic with a tracking chip - temporary, they swear. Boss may be gone, but he was one of Talon’s few leaders and they don’t know who else will come after him. The chip is for Jesse’s safety, in case he disappears again.

They’re holding a meeting later this evening, three weeks after his rescue, when Reaper and his team rest up from returning. They’d returned to the Talon base he’d been held at, scrounging for more information about their plans and hideaways.

“Jesse!”

He has about two seconds to brace himself before Hana comes rushing from behind him, using his arm as leverage. Her momentum swings her around until she collides with his chest. Jesse’s proud to stay he only stumbled a single step from the impact.

“What’s the story, Morning Glory?”

Hana pulls away from him, her face scrunching in loathing. “No.”

He looks her over and gives a long whistle of appreciation. “Slick duds there, darlin’.”

She strikes a pose, her normal pink and purple suit replaced with black and white. Her hair is held back from her face with a visor that no doubt drops down to cover her eyes- night vision if he had to guess. On one arm she sports her usual smattering of sponsor logos, and on the other, right on the shoulder, is a black overwatch logo.

Part of him worries about the return of a covert ops division, but he trusts things will turn out different this time around if this new rendition of Blackwatch establishes alongside and closer to Overwatch. This time they’re all working together, there’s no divide between the ranks of who’s behind the scenes and who isn’t.

“Thanks, Jess. Just wanted to make sure we’re still on for the range tomorrow?” She asks, starting to bounce back away from him, continuing down the hallway.

He tips his hat with a nod. “Sure thing, lil missy.”

Hana shoots him with a finger gun. “I’m gonna kick your ass twice as bad for that.” And then she sprints away.

“Lookin’ forward to it!” He hollers toward her retreating form.

Jesse follows her direction for a few steps before turning down a different hallway. Everything is soundly quiet here. He can’t hear the din of the occupied commons, nor does the squall of gulls out on the coast make it’s way in.

Stopping outside of a door, he pats his pockets, feeling for a certain device tucked squarely away. He quickly thumbs in a keycode, grinning as he steps through the door and waits for it slide closed behind him.

The room is stark but lavish by all comparison- sweeping drapes hang over a window that gives the most _fantastic_ view of a cliff wall and a bed that sits opposite from it, covered in pillows and a simple duvet. It leaves much to be desired, and Jesse has little doubt that with time, the room will become more personable and decorated, but for now the occupant is held under watch.

Jesse sheds his boots and hangs his serape before padding over to the empty side of the bed.

The other side is occupied by Overwatch’s newest possible acquisition- one Widowmaker.

Her message to Hanzo had been passed along. As soon as he was able, Jesse and the archer took the next flight out to Madrid and found her sitting at the same cafe they’d last spoken at. With her were several bags bursting with clothing, to which she claimed that Jesse had taken quite awhile on his promise and she refused to stay in that skin tight suit, regardless of her fate.

Currently, she lays on her side, thumbing through a romance novel. Several IVs run from bags to her arms and a thick monitor bracelet encumbers one of her slender wrists.

“She’s dying,” Mercy declared. “It’s good she’s receiving treatment now- I don’t know how her body held together for so long.”

He tamps down the angry voice in the back of his mind, the one that croons in Boss’s voice, that says they probably would have started replacing her piece by piece until there was nothing left.

She’ll be better now. Hopefully. If anyone can save her, he believes in Angela and her resources.

 _“Mon chér,”_ She peers over her shoulder and greets him with a weathered smile.

He joins her on the bed, crowding close to peek over her . He reaches over for her book and closes it around the finger she slips in between the pages to keep her place and screws his face up at the title. “ _‘Once Upon a Dreamboat’_ , really?”

Widow elbows him away, folding a corner before snapping the book shut. “The plot is good,”

“Is it now?” The image of a half naked man holding a buxom princess to his chest betrays the sentiment.

“Riveting.”

He laughs, rolling onto his back and tucking his hands behind his head. “I got somethin’ for ya.”

She turns over, sidling up to his chest. _“Pour moi?”_

“Gotta dig for it, in my pocket there.” He bumps her with his hip, waggling his brow.

She clicks her tongue, dragging her nails down his chest, letting her fingers hook under his belt and tug on their way down. “Scandalous, Jesse. What will they say?” She teases, snaking her hand into his pocket.

“ _‘There goes McCree, the luckiest man in the world!’_ ” He embellishes, grabbing his hat from his head and dropping it on the table beside the bed. “ _‘One day I hope to be just like him with two beautiful snipers on my arms.’_ ”

“Ah, but which of us is the fairest?”

He takes her chin in his hand, tilting her head up as she plucks what she finds from his pocket. “You know it’s you, darlin’.”

She smiles, eyes crinkling in mirth. “Do not let your dragon catch you telling such tall tales.” Finally she takes a look at what’s in her hand, her face falls slack.

Jesse cups her cheek, “Thought you might want that back.”

In her hands is a gameboy- the gameboy. She sits up fast, jostling the lines of IVs and folds her legs beside her. Swift and precise, she turns on the game, her face crinkling and contorting. She looks as though she should be crying but Jesse has the brief thought that she might not physically be able to.

By the sound of the menu chimes, he suspects that she’s looking at her party.

He’s kept it the same, her precious pokemon still awaiting her return. Gerard, Reaper, Oaf.

She chokes a muffled cry, following a sharp inhale. Her body curls over until Widow’s forehead rests on his shoulder, her long, navy hair spilling over his chest.

“I hate this.” She forces a weak, quiet laugh. “Feeling.”

Jesse brushes her hair back with his free hand. “I know, but I’ll be here to help you this time around.” He kisses the crown of her head.

She sits up suddenly, clutching the gameboy to her chest and rubbing at her red-rimmed eyes with the heel of her palm. “ _Merci._ ”

He grins at her, fishing in his other pocket. “Oh, that ain’t all there is,”

“More?” Widow asks, her surprise morphing into a coy smirk when he waves his own, matching device at her. “I see,” she purrs, “You’re looking for a - how do you so _elegantly_ put it? - an ass whooping.”

The cowboy grasps at his chest dramatically. “Darlin’, keep talkin’ like that to me and I’ll let ya do whatever you’d like to my ass.”

She leans over hims and grabs his hat, placing it on her own head. “Saddle up, Gunslinger. Let us see if you’ve improved.”

“Straight through my heart.” He croons, booting up his own game.

“I don’t miss.”

-

Hanzo has to refrain from showing the skip in his step as he heads for his room. He’s eager, impatience and joy burning through him, not unlike the high he gets in the midst of a storm. He’s received the approval he sought and he wants to prepare everything before springing the question on Jesse. He knows a world of planning will make everything smoother in the long run.

Fate, as it happens, has other plans for him.

“Hanzo!”

He stops in his tracks and turns to face his brother who jogs to meet him. The archer gives Genji a once over, appraising the dark black plating of armor her wears, accented by red running lights. Recently returned from his recon mission, it seems. “Welcome back, Genji.”

The cyborg nods. “Thank you, do you have a moment?”

Hanzo considers it- these things can sometimes bloom into day-long endeavours, but Genji is given little time before the mission debriefing- but what could be so urgent?. “What do you require?”

Genji perks, careful and swift in stepping forward. His voice dips low and hushed. “You should know before we tell the others- we found body parts at the base.”

“That is not news.” He vividly remembers chewing his way through several omnics with said pieces woven into their frames.

His brother shakes his head. “No, but there were pieces with the tattoos of dragons.”

He clues in quick. “And you believe they were ours?”

“I know they were, Hanzo. There was only a shoulder and an arm, but it was a Shimada dragon, the style is unmistakable.”

“How are you so certain?”

Genji shakes his head. “Shimada only trusted one family in the region with our moniker.”

A wry smile twists onto Hanzo face. “You never did finish your other arm.”

“And who’s fault was that?” Genji responds dryly. Hanzo almost regrets it, when Genji shoves at him lazily, but by merit of the cyborg’s body language, swinging loosely in a mocking mime of Hanzo’s posture- he knows better than to fall into his trap.

“I do not want you to be blindsided if it comes up during the meeting.” Genji continues.

Hanzo stiffens, eyes immediately training on his brother. “It does not need to be brought up.”

His brother’s hands spread out between them, placating in lieu of the conversation’s course. “It does. There could be things hidden away in our old family’s home that could help us find the missing people. What if everything was under our noses for years, Hanzo? It could help us take down Talon too. Do you not want that after what they have done to you and Jesse?”

“The man responsible has suffered.” He turns away.

“But not the organization.” Genji circles him, pushing back into his line of sight. “They will breed more like him. What do they need to take to make you see that they won’t stop until the world is theirs?”

Hanzo raises his chin in defiance. “And what have they taken of yours that you would blindly run back?”

There’s something about the way that Genji curls forward before straightening out, a ripple which tells Hanzo he may have gotten too close to what drives his younger brother.

The cyborg huffs in frustration. “You know our family was built upon many lies, Hanzo. You would be a fool to deny that. There are things that don’t line up and we have felt it since we were small but what could we say? What could we do?”

“Nothing,” The word leaves the archer’s lips in a whisper so harsh, and rushed.

“I need to know what secrets they kept from us.” He continues. “I am not demanding that you come with me, and I will not take your time away from your _honeymoon_. But I will let you know if I find anything worthwhile.”

Hanzo grits his teeth. “And what could be worthwhile?”

Genji shrugs, leaning back casually and play off the tension with an exaggerated shrug. “I do not know, perhaps some treasure. I’m sure I could scrounge up some gold or bring back a pile of jewels.”

He can’t help the snort, his mood diffused by such an absurd notion. “You always fancied the shinier baubles around the house.”

“I still do.”

-

Jesse stumbles into the meeting room, on time but slow and lethargic. His hair sticks out at odd angles and he wipes crust from the corners of his eyes. He drops down into the seat beside Hanzo, leaning into the archer’s side.

“How was your date?” The archer asks with a chuckle, his hand snaking up to comb down the back of Jesse’s head.

“Mmmm, was good. Got my ass handed to me, then I guess I fell asleep.” His face screws up as he remembers waking with a small puddle of drool under his face and one of Widowmaker’s boney fingers jabbing at him repeatedly, her other hand holding her closed-line comm. “She took pictures.”

Hanzo hums. “I will have to ask for copies.”

Jesse turns onto him with a grin. “Or you can take some yourself.”

The dragon rumbles, dexterous fingers beginning to knead into the muscles lining his neck. “Are you offering another photoshoot, Jesse?”

The recon team shuffles in then, dressed down in more comfortable wear. It surprises Jesse to see all Reaper, Genji, and Zenyatta pile themselves at one end of the table- the furthest from the head.

Instead, Hana takes the stage, standing with enough authority to rival half of the vets.

She lays out the logistics- their operations and their search and sweep of the base as if she’d mastered the holo map laid out in front of her.  It’s obvious how she became a starcraft champion- stratagem and its jargon come naturally to her and she paints a concise yet vivid image of the area. No embellishment, answering questions with acute precision.

Then come the findings.

“We found a number of human parts meshed into omnic builds. We were able to track and determine that all were from incarcerated criminals or from groups with records in Athena’s database.” She gives a small apologetic smile to Jesse and Hanzo tenses beside him. “This includes, but isn’t limited to: the IRA, Los Muertos, The Deadlock Gang, and the Russian Mob.”

The archer relaxes minutely, but Jesse can tell something bothers him from the rapid twitch in his foot.

“There were no traces of the missing people. We don’t have any leads on where they might be, but at least their remains haven’t shown up yet.” She flips the single paper she has with her. “We found some encrypted files that have been turned over to Athena and we should know what’s on them within the week.”

As she wraps up her debrief, Jesse feels a swell of pride and it takes every fiber of his being not to holler and cheer for her. Hell, she could’ve given Jack a run for his money, even if he’s a little biased.

She gives the spotlight over to Winston who begins to address what to do in the meantime. Hana plops herself right down in the chair next to Jesse and lets out a whoosh of air, shaking out the nerves to her very fingertips.

“Nice presentation, Miss Song.” Hanzo compliments her, leaning into Jesse to better address the young woman.

“Thanks!- Hey Jess,” She nudges him for attention, following through when he turns his head to her. “Did you see any animals being kept there?”

He shakes his head quickly. “Sorry, Buttercup. It was just me and that tiny room,” and his dreams which still make him wake up in a cold sweat. Sometimes the jaws of the false wolf come too close for comfort. “Why d’ya ask?”

“We found some feathers in the base and we can’t figure out where they came from.” She says, frustration clear in her voice. Too many loose ends.

“Huh, that is odd.”

-

It’s the same dive joint and the same booth- predictable, and highly unlike his contact.

Reaper orders a strong coffee, not intending to drink it and scare away all other patrons with his grisly visage, but he hopes the smell will perk him up some.

It’s been a few long grueling days combing through the remains of the base, cataloguing DNA samples and tattoo images. Genji’s been restless, drawing the concern of both himself and Zenyatta. He scowls behind his mask, trying hard to fight back the feeling that everyone involved in this is worse off than when it started.

“Careful, I can smell the grinding gears from here.”

He snaps his head up to see Sombra lounging in the seat across the booth from him.

She gives him a toothy grin. “You sure are racking up the favors, Gabriel. Location, remote access, what’s next? Someone’s first born?”

Reaper doesn’t respond, plucking a small thumb drive from his chest pocket and letting it snap to the table. Sombra’s eyes light up and suddenly she’s sitting at full attention, curious about what he’s come to offer. He holds the drive between the table and a clawed finger. “This should repay some of those favors.”

As soon as he releases it, she snatches the drive up and jams a nail into it, her grin growing impossibly wide as she previews a few of the files. “Encrypted files from Athena,” She coos. “Aw, you shouldn’t have!”

“That is for your eyes only,” He warns. “Or I will hunt you down.”

She hums, slipping into a pocket quickly. “I can’t make any promises, Gabriel, you know this.” Sombra leans forward, staring at him. “Unless… only under one condition will I keep this tasty morsel to myself.”

“Name it.”

Her face lights up with glee, leaning forward into the thread of her hands. “I hear you work with  a real life cowboy. Tell me about him.”

-

Out here, Hanzo likes to think he knows why Jesse is so fond of the desert. Even though they’re on an island comprised mostly of rock, there are few enough lights nearby that the sky dances with stars at night. He can see why Jesse would love the endless night sky in the lightless desert and the whole universe stretched before him- a dreamer.

Beneath him the dirt has been baked dry by the sun, but it still soft enough that he can dig his fingers into it. Before him lies the ocean, reflecting the glittering lights up above on its surface.

Knuckles and a bottle knock against his own and he autonomously takes the neck of the bottle and downs a swig.

The whiskey is cheap, but it warms him and settles the twisting crawl in his stomach.

He still remembers being shown the cliff facing. Claiming it for his own solitude when he was all but a broken man and after.

It’s odd to think that he has someone to share it with now.

Jesse leans heavy onto his shoulder, the rim of his hat jabbing into and bending against Hanzo’s face. The archer scowls before removing it, holding it in his lap and worrying the edges with his fingers.

Gently, the cowboy reaches to snag his hat back. “Hey,” He drawls. “What’s eatin’ ya?”

“I have been granted vacation time.”

“Oh?”

Hanzo hums in confirmation. “I am going to spend some time away, maybe in the alps- at the cabin. To get away for a while.”

Jesse sits up, stares at him with comically wide eyes. “How long?”

“Six months.”

Hanzo finds it amusing how quick the cowboy is to assume heartbreak, but he isn’t done with him yet.

The archer threads his hands in Jesse’s hair, smoothing it back out of his eyes and pulls him in for a quick kiss. As they part, Hanzo pulls the bottle of whiskey aside to cup his face. “And Winston has sent his approval for you to join me. ,” He smirks in the space between them. “You only need to sign off on it.”

“Fuck you,” Jesse hisses against his lips, surging in for another kiss that knocks their noses together. “Makin’ me think you were leavin’ me.” His face crinkles with the force of his smile as he dives in again and again for more kisses and Hanzo pulls them back onto the earth.

“I would not dream of leaving you behind.” When Jesse crawls over him, he huffs a laugh tinged sour that makes Hanzo’s nose wrinkle. They needed to invest in nicer whiskey, certainly. Hanzo laughs and pulled the sharpshooter tight. “I take it that you accept?”

Jesse nods, crushing Hanzo against the earth. “Of course, Sweetheart, Sugarcube, Darlin’ o’ mine.” He babbles.

Hanzo pulls his hand out of Jesse’s wild locks, intending to find a more comfortable position, when a glint of gold catches his eye.

Between his fingers is a golden feather, small and impossibly frail.

A gust of wind blows through, taking it away before Hanzo can even begin to wonder where it came from. Jesse’s hands find his sides and the mouth on his neck makes him nearly forget all about it before the night is through.

Somewhere, it floats away, off into the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Aki again for editing this whole monster!
> 
> And thank you to everyone who stuck through it this long and I can't wait to see you all in the next fic. We're gonna wrap up some mysteries and crack open some new hot ones with the cold boys. Keep an eye out for Everything Under the Sun!!
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


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